LOT  &  COMPANY 

MANUFACTURERS 


OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY.  LOS  ANGELES 


LOT  &  COMPANY 


BY  WILL  LEVINGTON  COMFORT 


LOT  &  COMPANY 
RED  FLEECE 
MIDSTREAM 
DOWN  AMONG  MEN 
FATHERLAND 


GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 
NEW  YORK 


BY 


AUTHOR  OF  "RED  FLEECE,"  "MIDSTREAM,"  "DOWN  AMONG 

MEN,"  "ROUTLEDGE  RIDES  ALONE," 

ETC.,  ETC. 


NEW  YORK 

GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


UNIV.  OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY.  LOS  ANGELES 


Copyright,  1915, 
BY  GEORGE  H.  DOKAN  COMPANY 


TO 

JANE 


2125820 


CONTENTS 

PART  ONE 
THE  JADE:   I n 

PART  TWO 
LOT  &  COMPANY:  I ,    .    .    .    .      21 

PART  THREE 
THE  JADE:  II ,    .    .    .    .      67 

PART  FOUR 
THE  OPEN  BOAT 107 

PART  FIVE 
THE  STONE  HOUSE:  I 197 

PART  SIX 
LOT  &  COMPANY  :  II 241 

PART  SEVEN 
THE  STONE  HOUSE:  II 321 


PART  ONE:     THE  JADE:  I 


PART  ONE 
THE    JADE:    I 


ALL  would  have  happened  differently  for 
Bellair  had  he  been  drowsy  as  usual 
on  this  particular  Sunday  afternoon. 
The  boarding-house  was  preparing  for 
its  nap;  indeed  already  half  enveloped,  but  there 
came  to  Bellair's  nostrils  a  smell  of  carpets  that 
brought  back  his  first  passage  up  stairs  five  years 
before.  The  halls  were  filled  with  greys — dull 
tones  that  drove  him  forth  at  last.  It  was  No 
vember,  and  the  day  didn't  know  what  to  do 
next.  Gusts  of  seasonable  wind,  wisps  of  sun 
shine,  threats  of  rain,  and  everywhere  Bellair's 
old  enemy — the  terrifying  Sabbath  calm,  with 
out  which  the  naked  granite  soul  of  New  York 
would  remain  decently  hid.  Sundays  had  tor 
tured  him  from  the  beginning.  It  was  not  so 
bad  when  the  garment  was  on — the  weave  of 
millions. 

[11] 


LOT     &      COMPANY 


He  walked  east  with  an  umbrella,  thinking 
more  than  observing,  crossed  to  Brooklyn  and 
followed  the  water-front  as  closely  as  the  com 
plication  of  ferries,  pier-systems  and  general  ship 
ping  would  permit.  Finally  he  came  to  a  wooden 
arch,  marked  Hatmos  &  Company,  the  gate  of 
which  was  open.  Entering,  he  heard  the  water 
slapping  the  piles  beneath,  his  eyes  held  in  fasci 
nation  to  an  activity  ahead.  In  the  wonder  of 
a  dream,  he  realised  that  this  was  a  sailing-ship 
putting  forth.  On  her  black  stern,  he  read 

Jade  of  Adelaide 

printed  in  blue  of  worn  pigment. 

A  barkentine,  her  clipper-built  hull  of  steel, 
her  lines  satisfying  like  the  return  of  a  friend 
after  years.  Along  the  water-line  shone  the  bright 
edge  of  her  copper  sheathing;  then  a  soft  black 
line  smooth  as  modelled  clay  where  she  muscled 
out  for  sea-worth,  and  covered  her  displacement 
in  the  daring  beauty  of  contour.  Still  above  was 
the  shining  brass  of  her  row  of  ports  on  a  ground 
of  weathered  grey,  and  the  dull  red  of  her  rail. 
Over  all,  and  that  which  quickened  the  ardour  of 
Bell  air's  soul,  was  the  mystery  of  her  wire  rig 
ging  and  folded  cloths  against  the  smoky  horizon, 
exquisite  as  the  frame  of  a  butterfly  to  his  fancy. 

His  emotion  is  not  to  be  explained ;  nor  another 
high  moment  of  his  life  which  had  to  do  with  a 
flashing  merchantman  seen  from  the  water-front 

[12] 


THE    JADE:    i 

at  San  Francisco — square-rigged  throughout,  a 
cloud  of  sail-cloth,  her  royals  yet  to  be  lifted,  as 
she  got  underweigh.  He  knew  that  considerable 
canvas  was  still  spread  between  California, 
Australia  and  the  Islands,  but  what  a  well-kept 
if  ancient  maiden  of  the  Jade's  species  was  doing 
here  in  New  York  harbour,  A.  D.  Nineteen  hun 
dred  and  odd,  was  not  disclosed  to  Bellair  until 
afterward,  and  not  clearly  then. 

He  knew  her  for  a  barkentine,  and  in  the  in 
tensely  personal  appeal  of  the  moment  he  was  a 
bit  sorry  for  the  blend.  To  his  eyes  the  schooner- 
rig  of  mizzen  and  main  masts  was  not  to  be 
compared  for  beauty  to  the  trisected  fore.  Still 
he  reflected  that  square-rigged  throughout,  she 
would  be  crowded  with  crew  to  care  for  her,  and 
that  her  concession  to  trade  was  at  least  not  out 
right.  Schooner,  bark  and  brig — he  seemed  to 
know  them  first  hand,  not  only  from  pictures  and 
pages  of  print,  though  there  had  been  many  long 
evenings  of  half-dream  with  books  before  him — 
books  that  always  pushed  back  impatiently 
through  the  years  of  upstart  Steam  into  Nature's 
own  navigation,  where  Romance  has  put  on  her 
brave  true  form  in  the  long  perspective.  Ships 
that  really  sailed  were  one  of  Bellair's  passions, 
like  orchards  and  vined  stone-work — all  far  from 
him  apparently  and  out  of  the  question — loved 
the  more  because  of  it.  ...  He  watched  with 
rapt  eyes  now,  estimated  the  Jade's  length  at 

[13] 


LOT      &     COMPANY 


one-seventy-five  and  was  debating  her  tonnage 
when  a  huge  ox  of  a  man  appeared  from  the 
cabin  (while  the  Jade  slid  farther  out),  wad 
dled  aft  as  if  bare-footed,  spoke  to  an  officer 
there,  and  then  held  up  two  brown  hairy,  thick- 
fingered  hands,  palms  extended  to  the  pier — as  if 
to  push  Brooklyn  from  him  forever.  .  .  .  The 
officer's  voice  just  reached  shore,  but  not  his 
words.  A  Japanese  woman  appeared  on  the 
receding  deck. 

"Jade  of  Adelaide"  muttered  Bellair,  moments 
afterward. 

A  tug  was  towing  her  straight  toward  Staten. 
He  thought  of  her  lying  off  the  glistening  white 
beach  of  a  coral  island  two  months  hence,  sur 
rounded  by  native  craft,  all  hands  helping  the 
big  man  get  ashore.  ...  At  this  moment  a  young 
man  emerged  from  the  harbour-front  door  of  the 
Hatmos  office,  locking  it  after  him.  Bellair  came 
up  from  his  dream.  Such  realities  of  the  city  man 
are  mainly  secret.  It  was  the  worn  surface  that 
Bellair  presented  to  the  stranger,  a  sophisticated 
and  imperturbable  surface,  and  one  employed  so 
often  that  its  novelty  was  gone. 

"Where's  she  going*?"  he  asked. 

"Who?' 

Bellair  smiled  at  the  facetiousness. 

"The  Jade"  he  said  gently. 

"Just  as  far  from  here  as  she  can  get." 

"Round  the  world?" 

[14] 


THE    JADE:    i 

"I  doubt  if  she'll  come  back." 

"You  don't  see  many  of  them  any  more " 

"No,"  replied  the  other  agreeably  enough,  "this 
old  dame  and  two  or  three  sisters  are  about  all 
that  call  here.  Hatmos  &  Co.  get  'em  all." 

"Will  you  have  a  little  drink?'  Bellair  in 
quired.  "That  is,  if  you  know  a  place  around 
here.  I'm  from  across." 

The  other  was  not  unwilling.  They  walked 
up  the  pier  together.  A  place  was  found. 

"Does  the  Jade  belong  to  the  Hatmos  people?" 
Bellair  asked. 

"No.  We're  agents  for  Stackhouse.  By  the 
way,  he's  aboard  the  Jade — just  left  the  office  a 
half  hour  ago.  The  Hatmos  son  and  heir  went 
home  in  a  cab,  like  his  father  used  to,  when 
Stackhouse  blew  in  from  the  South  Seas " 

"The  big  man  who  stood  aft  as  the  ship 
cleared?"  Bellair  suggested. 

"Hairy  neck — clothes  look  like  pajamas?" 

"Yes." 

"That  must  have  been  Stackhouse.  He's  the 
biggest  man  in  Peloponasia — • — " 

Bellair  wondered  if  he  meant  Polynesia.  "You 
mean  in  size?" 

"Possibly  that,  but  I  meant — interests.  Owns 
whole  islands  and  steam-fleets,  but  hates  steam. 
Does  his  pleasure  riding  under  canvas.  Comes 
up  to  New  York  every  third  year  with  a  new 
Japanese  wife.  Used  to  spend  his  time  drinking 

[15] 


LOT     &      COMPANY 


with  old  Hatmos — now  he's  trying  to  kill  off 
the  younger  generation.  Lives  at  the  Florimel 
while  in  New  York,  and  teaches  the  dago  bar- 
boys  how  to  make  tropical  drinks.  If  he  had 
stayed  longer,  he  would  have  got  to  me.  Young 
Hatmos  is  about  finished." 

Bellair  breathed  deeply,  strangely  alive. 
"Where  does  the  Jade  call  first  after  leaving 
here?" 

"Savannah — then  one  or  two  South  American 
ports — then  around  the  Horn  and  the  long  up 
beat  to  the  Islands." 

"Why,  that  might  mean  four  months."  Bellair 
spoke  with  a  touch  of  wistfulness. 

They  emerged  to  the  street  at  length,  and  the 
New  Yorker  started  shyly  back  to  the  pier.  The 
Hatmos  man  laughed. 

"You  fall  for  the  sailing-stuff,  don't  you?" 

"Yes,  it's  got  me.    Do  they  take  passengers?" 

"Sure,  if  you're  in  no  hurry.  Here  and  there, 
some  one  like  you — just  for  the  voyage.  Two 
or  three  on  board  from  here.  .  .  .  One  a  preacher. 
He'd  better  look  out.  Stackhouse  hates  to  drink 
alone." 

"Thanks.     Good-bye." 

The  Jade,  far  and  very  little  among  the  liners, 
had  turned  south  to  the  Narrows  and  was  spread 
ing  her  wings.  .  .  .  The  world  began  to  shut 
Bellair  in,  as  he  crossed  the  river  again.  Sunday 
night  supper  at  the  boarding-house  was  always  a 
[16] 


THE    JADE:    i 

dismal  affair;  by  every  manner  and  means  it  was 
so  to-night.  The  chorus  woman  of  the  Hippo 
drome  was  bolting  ahead  of  the  bell,  to  hurry 
away  to  rehearsal.  Nightly  she  came  up  out 
of  the  water.  .  .  .  He  tried  three  sea-books  that 
night— "Lady  Letty,"  "Lord  Jim"  and  "The 
Phantom,"  but  couldn't  get  caught  in  their  old 
spell.  A  new  and  personal  dimension  was  upon 
him  from  the  afternoon.  He  fell  to  dreaming 
again  and  again  of  the  Jade — the  last  misty 
glimpse  of  her  at  the  Narrows,  and  the  huge 
brown  hands  pushing  Brooklyn  away.  .  .  . 
There  is  pathos  in  the  city  man's  love  and  need 
for  fresh  air.  Bellair  pulled  his  bed  to  the  win 
dow  at  last,  surveying  the  room  without  regard. 
Long  afterward  he  dreamed  that  he  was  out  on 
the  heaving  floor  of  the  sea,  and  that  a  man- 
monster  came  down  from  the  deck  in  pajamas,  and 
pressing  his  hands  against  the  walls  of  the  cabin, 
made  respiration  next  to  impossible  for  the  in 
mate.  There  was  a  key  to  this  suffocation,  for 
the  air  in  his  room  was  still  as  a  pool.  A  lull 
had  fallen  upon  the  city  before  a  gusty  storm  of 
wind  and  rain. 


PART  TWO:  LOT  &  COMPANY:  I 


PART  TWO 
LOT    &    COMPANY:    I 


BELLAIR  regarded  himself  as  an  average 
man;  and  after  all  perhaps  this  was  the 
most  significant  thing  about  him.     He 
was  not  average  to  look  at — the  face 
of  a  student  and  profoundly  kind — and  yet,  he 
had   moved   in   binding   routine    for   five   years 
that  they  knew  of  at  Lot  &  Company's.     His 
acquaintances  were  of  the  average  type.    He  did 
not  criticise  them ;  you  would  not  have  known  that 
he  saw  them  with  something  of  the  same  sorrow 
that  he  regarded  himself. 

Back  of  this  five  years  was  an  Unknowable. 
Had  you  possessed  exactly  the  perception  you 
might  have  caught  a  glimpse  of  some  extraordinary 
culture  that  comes  from  life  in  the  older  lands,  and 
personal  contacts  with  deeper  evils — the  culture 
of  the  great  drifters,  the  inimitable  polish  of  roll 
ing  stones.  As  a  usual  thing  he  would  not  have 

[21] 


LOT      &     COMPANY 


shown  you  any  of  this.  At  Lot  &  Company's 
offices,  men  had  moved  and  talked  and  lunched 
near  and  with  him  for  years  without  uncovering 
a  gleam  of  a  certain  superb  equipment  for  life 
which  really  existed  in  a  darkened  room  of  his 
being. 

Perhaps  he  was  still  in  preparation.  We  have 
not  really  completed  the  circle  of  any  accomplish 
ment  until  we  have  put  it  in  action.  Certainly 
Bellair  had  not  done  that,  since  the  Unknowable 
ended.  He  had  made  no  great  friends  among  men 
or  women;  though  almost  thirty,  he  had  met  no 
stirring  love  affair,  at  least  in  this  period.  He 
had  done  the  most  common  duties  of  trade,  for 
a  common  reward  in  cash;  lived  in  a  common 
house — moved  in  crowds  of  common  men  and 
affairs.  It  was  as  if  he  were  a  spy,  trained  from 
a  child,  but  commanded  at  the  very  beginning 
of  his  manhood,  not  only  to  toil  and  serve  in 
an  insignificant  post — but  to  be  insignificant  as 
well.  It  was  by  accident,  for  instance,  that  they 
discovered  at  Lot  &  Company's  that  Bellair  was 
schooled  in  the  Sanscrit. 

Before  usual  he  was  astir  that  Monday  morn 
ing,  but  late  at  the  office  for  all  that.  A  drop 
of  consciousness  somewhere  between  shoe-buttons, 
and  a  similar  trance  between  collar  and  tie.  In 
these  lapses  a  half  hour  was  lost,  and  queerly 
enough  afterward  the  old  purports  of  his  life 
did  not  hold  together  as  before.  A  new  breath 

[22] 


LOT    &   COMPANY:    i 

from  somewhere,  a  difference  in  vitality,  and  the 
hum-drum,  worn-sore  consciousness  given  to  his 
work  with  Lot  &  Company,  had  become  like  an 
obscene  relative,  to  be  rid  of,  even  at  the  price 
of  dollars  and  the  established  order  of  things. 
It  had  been  very  clear  as  he  drank  his  coffee  that 
he  must  give  quit-notice  at  the  office,  yet  when 
he  reached  there,  this  was  not  so  easy,  and  he 
was  presently  at  work  as  usual  in  his  cage  with 
Mr.  Sproxley,  the  cashier. 

The  Quaker  firm  of  Lot  &  Company  was  essen 
tially  a  printing  establishment.  During  the  first 
half  of  the  period  in  which  Bellair  had  been  con 
nected,  though  he  was  not  stupider  than  usual,  he 
had  not  realised  the  crooked  weave  of  the  entire 
inner  fabric  of  the  house.  Lot  &  Company  had 
been  established  for  seventy-five  years  and  through 
three  generations.  Its  conduct  was  ordered  now 
like  a  process  of  nature,  a  systematised  tone  to 
each  surface  manner  and  expression.  All  the  de 
partments  were  strained  and  deformed  to  meet 
and  adjust  in  the  larger  current  of  profit  which  the 
cashier  had  somehow  bridged  without  scandal  for 
twenty-seven  years.  Personally,  so  far  as  Bellair 
knew,  Mr.  Sproxley  was  an  honest  man,  though 
not  exactly  of  the  manner,  and  underpaid. 

The  cashier's  eyes  were  black,  a  black  that 
would  burn  you,  and  unquestionably  furtive,  al 
though  Bellair  sat  for  two  years  at  a  little  dis 
tance  from  the  cashier's  desk  before  he  accepted 

[23] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 


the  furtiveness,  so  deeply  laid  and  set  and  hard 
ened  were  his  first  impressions.  They  were 
hard  eyes  as  well,  like  that  anthracite  which 
retains  its  gleaming  black  edge,  though  the  side  to 
the  draft  is  red  to  the  core. 

Mr.  Sproxley's  home  was  in  Brooklyn,  an 
hour's  ride  from  the  office — a  little  flat  in  a  street 
of  little  flats,  all  with  the  same  porches,  brick 
work  and  rusty  numerals.  An  apartment  for  two, 
and  yet  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Sproxley  had  not  moved, 
though  five  black-eyed  children  had  come  to  them. 
The  cashier  of  Lot  &  Company  was  a  stationary 
man — that  was  his  first  asset.  ...  A  hundred 
times  Bellair  had  heard  the  old  formula,  delivered 
by  firm  members  to  some  caller  at  the  office: 

"This  is  our  cashier,  Mr.  Sproxley.  He  has 
been  with  us  twenty-seven  years.  We  have  found 
him  the  soul  of  honour" — the  last  trailing  off  into 
a  whisper — a  hundred  times  in  almost  the  same 
words,  for  the  Lots  and  the  Wetherbees  bred  true. 
The  visitor  would  be  drawn  off  and  confidently 
informed  that  Mr.  Sproxley  would  die  rather  than 
leave  a  penny  unaccounted;  indeed,  that  his  zeal 
on  the  small  as  well  as  large  affairs  was  frequently 
a  disturbance  to  the  office  generally,  since  every 
thing  stopped  until  the  balance  swung  free.  Bel- 
lair  knew  of  this  confidential  supplement  to  the 
main  form,  because  he  had  taken  it  into  his  own 
pores  on  an  early  day  of  his  employment.  The 
lift  of  that  first  talk  (in  Bellair's  case  it  was  from 

[24] 


LOT   &   COMPANY:   r 


the  elder  Wetherbee,  an  occasional  Thee  and 
Thou  escaping  with  unworldly  felicity)  was  for 
Bellair  sometime  to  attain  a  similar  rock-bound 
austerity  of  honour.  .  .  .  Always  the  stranger 
glanced  a  second  time  at  Mr.  Sproxley  during  the 
firm-member's  low-voiced  affirmation  of  his  pas 
sionate  integrity. 

Passing  to  the  second  floor,  the  visitor  would 
meet  Mr.  Hardburg,  head  of  the  manuscript  and 
periodical  department,  for  Lot  &  Company  had 
found  a  good  business  in  publishing  books  of  story 
and  poetry  at  the  author's  expense.  Here  eye 
and  judgment  reigned,  Mr.  Hardburg' s,  on  all 
matters  of  book-dress  and  criticism;  yet  within 
six  or  seven  minutes,  the  formula  would  break 
through  for  the  attention  of  the  caller,  thus : 

"Lot  &  Company  is  a  conservative  House — : 
that's  why  it  stands — a  House,  sir  (one  felt  the 
Capital),  that  has  stood  for  seventy-five  years 
on  a  basis  of  honour  and  fair  dealing,  if  on  a  con 
servative  basis.  Lot  &  Company  stands  by  its 
agents  and  employes  first  and  last.  Lot  &  Com 
pany  does  not  plunge,  but  over  any  given  period 
of  time,  its  progress  is  apparent  and  its  policy 
significantly  successful." 

Mr.  Hardburg's  eyes  kindled  as  he  spoke — grey 
tired  eyes,  not  at  all  like  Mr.  Sproxley's — but  the 
light  waned,  and  Mr.  Hardburg  quickly  relapsed 
into  ennui  and  complaint,  for  he  was  a  living 
sick  man.  The  impression  one  drew  from  his 

[25] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 

earlier  years,  was  that  he  had  overstrained  as  an 
athlete,  and  been  a  bit  loose  and  undone  ever 
since.  .  .  ,  Now  Mr.  Hardburg  would  be  called 
away  for  a  moment,  leaving  the  stranger  in  the 
office  with  Miss  Rinderley,  his  assistant.  With 
fluent  and  well  directed  sentences,  this  lady  would 
outline  the  triumphs  of  Mr.  Hardburg  from  col 
lege  to  the  mastery  of  criticism  which  he  was  now 
granted  professionally. 

"But  what  we  love  best  about  him,"  Miss 
Rinderley  would  say,  glancing  at  the  enlarged 
photograph  above  his  desk,  "is  the  tireless  way 
he  helps  young  men.  Always  he  is  at  that.  I 
have  seen  him  talk  here  for  an  hour — when  the 
most  pressing  matters  of  criticism  and  editorial 
responsibility  called — literally  giving  himself  to 
some  one  needing  help.  Very  likely  he  would 
miss  his  train  for  the  country.  Poor  Mr.  Hard 
burg,  he  needs  his  rest  so " 

The  caller  would  cry  in  his  heart,  "What  a 
superb  old  institution  this  is !"  and  cover  his  own 
weaknesses  and  shortcomings  in  a  further  sheath 
of  mannerism  and  appreciation — the  entire  atmos 
phere  strangely  prevailing  to  help  one  to  stifle 
rather  than  to  ventilate  his  real  points  of  view. 

So  the  establishment  moved.  The  groups  of 
girls  going  up  and  down  the  back  stairs — to  count 
or  tie  or  paste  through  all  their  interesting  days — 
counted  the  heads  of  their  respective  departments 
as  their  greatest  men;  spoke  of  them  in  awed 

[26] 


LOT    &   COMPANY:    i 


whispers,  in  certain  cases  with  maternal  affection, 
and  on  occasion  even  with  playful  intimacy  on 
the  part  of  a  few — but  always  as  a  master- 
workman,  the  best  man  in  the  business,  who  ex 
pressed  the  poorest  part  of  himself  in  words,  and 
had  to  be  lived  with  for  years  adequately  to  be 
appreciated  and  understood. 

Mr.  Nathan  Lot,  the  present  head  of  the  firm, 
was  a  dreamer.  It  was  Mr.  Sproxley  who  had 
first  told  Bellair  this,  but  he  heard  it  frequently 
afterward,  came  to  recognise  it  as  the  accepted 
initial  saying  as  regarded  the  Head,  just  as  his 
impeccable  honour  was  Mr.  Sproxley's  and  un 
erring  critical  instinct  Mr.  Hardburg's  titular 
association.  Mr.  Nathan  was  the  least  quarrel 
some  man  anywhere,  the  quietest  and  the  gentlest 
— a  small  bloodless  man  of  fifty,  aloof  from  busi 
ness;  a  man  who  had  worn  and  tested  himself  so 
little  that  you  would  imagine  him  destined  to  live 
as  long  again,  except  for  the  lugubrious  atmos 
pheres  around  his  desk,  in  the  morning  especially, 
the  sense  of  imperfect  ventilation,  though  the  par 
titions  were  but  half-high  to  the  lower  floor  and 
there  was  a  thousand  feet  to  draw  from.  The 
same  was  beginning  in  Jabez,  the  son,  something 
pent,  non-assimilation  somewhere.  However 
Jabez  wasn't  a  dreamer;  at  least,  dreaming  had 
not  become  his  identifying  proclivity.  He  was 
a  head  taller  than  his  father  with  a  wide  limp 
mouth  and  small  expressionless  brown  eyes — 

[27] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 


twenty-seven,  and  almost  as  many  times  a  mil 
lionaire. 

Jabez  was  richer  than  his  father,  who  was  the 
direct  heir  of  the  House  of  Lot,  but  his  father's 
dreaming  had  complicated  the  flow  of  another 
huge  fortune  in  the  familiar  domestic  fashion — - 
iJabez  being  the  symbol  and  centre  of  the  com 
bination;  also  the  future  head  of  the  House  of 
Lot  and  Company — up  and  down  town. 

Bellair  wondered  a  long  time  what  the  per 
vading  dream  of  the  father  was.  He  had  been 
in  the  office  many  months,  had  never  heard  the 
senior-mind  give  vent  to  authoritative  saying  in 
finance,  literature,  science  or  prints;  and  while  this 
did  not  lower  his  estimate  at  all — he  was  sin 
cerely  eager  to  get  at  the  sleeping  force  of  this 
giant.  Mr.  Sproxley  spoke  long  on  the  subject, 
but  did  not  know.  Mr.  Hardburg  said : 

"I  have  been  associated  with  Mr.  Nathan  for 
eleven  years  now.  The  appeal  of  his  worth  is 
not  eager  and  insinuating,  but  I  have  this  to  say 
— that  in  eleven  years  I  have  found  myself  slip 
ping,  slipping  into  a  mysterious,  a  different  re 
gard,  a  profounder  friendliness — if  one  might  put 
it  that  way — for  Mr.  Nathan,  than  any  I  have 
known  in  my  whole  career.  The  fact  is  I  love 
Mr.  Nathan.  He  is  one  of  the  sweetest  spirits 
I  ever  knew." 

Bellair  was  interested  in  dreamers ;  had  a  theory 
that  dreaming  was  important.  When  he  heard 
[28] 


LOT    &   COMPANY:    i 

that  a  certain  child  was  inclined  to  dreaming,  he 
was  apt  to  promise  a  significant  future  off-hand. 
He  reflected  that  even  Mr.  Hardburg  had  for 
gotten  to  tell  him  of  the  tendency  in  Mr.  Nathan's 
case,  but  determined  not  to  give  up.  .  .  .  Once 
in  the  lower  part  of  the  city,  he  passed  the  firm- 
head — a  studious  little  man  making  his  way  along 
at  the  edge  of  the  walk.  Bellair  spoke  before  he 
thought.  Mr.  Nathan  started  up  in  a  dazed  way, 
appeared  to  recognise  him  with  difficulty,  as  if 
there  was  something  in  the  face  that  the  hat  made 
different.  He  cleared  his  voice  and  inquired  with 
embarrassment : 

"Are  you  going  to  the  store?" 

After  Bellair  had  ceased  to  regret  speaking,  he 
reflected  upon  the  word  "store."  The  president 
of  a  great  manufacturing  plant,  content  to  be 
known  as  a  tradesman — an  excellent,  a  Quaker 
simplicity  about  that. 

Bellair's  particular  friend  in  the  establishment 
was  Broadwell  of  the  advertising-desk,  a  young 
man  of  his  own  age  who  was  improving  himself 
evenings  and  who  aspired  to  be  a  publisher.  But 
even  closer  to  his  heart  was  Davy  Acton,  one  of 
the  office-boys,  who  had  been  tested  out  and  was 
not  a  liar.  A  sincere  sad-faced  lad  of  fifteen,  who 
lived  with  his  mother  somewhere  away  down 
town.  He  looked  up  to  Bellair  as  to  a  man  among 
men,  one  who  had  achieved.  This  was  hard  to 
bear  on  the  man's  part,  but  he  was  fond  of  the 

[29] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 

youngster  and  often  had  him  over  Sundays,  fur 
nishing  books  of  his  own  and  recommending 
others.  Davy  believed  in  him.  This  was  the 
sensation. 

The  only  voices  that  were  ever  raised  in  the 
establishment  were  those  of  the  travelling  sales 
men.  The  chief  of  this  department,  Mr.  Rawter, 
was  loud-voiced  in  his  joviality.  That  was  his 
word — "Mr.  Rawter  is  so  jovial." 

When  the  roaring  joviality  of  Mr.  Rawter 
boomed  through  the  lower  floor,  old  Mr.  Wether- 
bee,  the  vice-president,  would  look  up  from  his 
desk,  and  remark  quietly  to  any  one  who  happened 
near,  "Mr.  Rawter  is  forced  to  meet  the  trade, 
you  know."  It  was  doubtless  his  gentle  Quaker 
conception  that  wine-lists,  back-slapping  and 
whole-souled  abandonment  of  to-morrow,  were 
essentials  of  the  road  and  trade  affiliation.  From 
the  rear  of  the  main  floor,  back  among  the  piles 
of  stock,  reverberating  among  great  square  monu 
ments  of  ledgers  and  pamphlets  were  the  jovial 
voices  of  the  other  salesmen,  Mr.  Rawter's  sec 
onds,  the  Middle-west  man,  and  the  Coast-and- 
South  man — voices  slightly  muffled,  as  became 
their  station,  but  regular  in  joviality,  and  doubt 
less  as  boom-compelling  afield  as  their  chief's, 
considering  their  years. 

Otherwise  the  elder  Mr.  Wetherbee — Mr.  Seth 
— presided  over  a  distinguished  silence  for  the 
main.  His  desk  was  open  to  the  floor  at  large. 

[30] 


LOT    &    COMPANY:    i 


He  was  seventy,  and  one  of  the  first  to  arrive  in 
the  morning — a  vice-president  who  opened  the 
mail,  and  had  in  expert  scrutiny  such  matters  as 
employment,  salaries,  orders  and  expenses  of  the 
travelling  men  on  the  road.  Mr.  Seth  was  not  a 
dreamer;  at  least  not  on  week-days — a  million 
aire,  who  gave  you  the  impression  that  he  was 
constantly  on  his  guard  lest  his  heart-quality 
should  suddenly  ruin  all.  The  love,  the  very 
ardour  of  his  soul  was  to  give  away — to  dissipate 
the  fortunes  of  his  own  and  the  firm-members,  but 
so  successfully  had  he  fought  all  his  life  on  the 
basis  of  considering  the  justice  to  his  family  and 
his  firm,  that  Lot  &  Company  now  relied  upon 
him,  undoubting.  Thus  often  a  man  born 
with  weakness  develops  it  into  his  particular 
strength.  .  .  . 

The  son,  Eben  Wetherbee,  was  harder  for  Bel- 
lair  to  designate.  He  seemed  a  different  force, 
and  called  forth  secret  regard.  A  religious  young 
man,  who  always  occurred  to  Bellair's  mind  as  he 
had  once  seen  him,  crossing  the  Square  a  summer 
evening,  a  book  under  his  arm,  his  short  steps 
lifted  and  queerly  rounded,  as  if  treading  a  low- 
geared  sprocket;  toes  straight  out — the  whole  gait 
mincing  a  little.  Eben  was  smileless  and  a  great 
worker.  He  had  no  more  to  do  or  say  with  his 
father  during  working  hours  than  any  of  the 
others. 

Such  was  the  firm:    Mr.  Nathan  Lot  and  his 

[31] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 

son  Jabez ;  Mr.  Seth  Wetherbee  and  his  son  Eben, 
and  Mr.  Rawter  who  had  been  given  a  nominal 
quantity  of  stock  after  thirty-five  years'  service. 
In  due  course  Mr.  Sproxley  would  qualify  for 
this  illumination.  .  .  .  And  yet  not  all.  Staring 
down  from  the  arch  over  the  president's  door 
was  a  dour,  white,  big-chinned  face,  done  in  oils 
long  ago — almost  yellow- white,  the  black  shoul 
der  deadening  away  into  the  background;  small 
eyes,  wide  mouth,  but  firmly  hung — grandfather 
to  Mr.  Nathan,  but  no  dreamer;  great  grand-sire 
to  Mr.  Jabez,  but  nothing  loose-mouthed  about 
the  face  of  this,  the  original  Jabez  Lot, — organis 
ing  genius  of  the  House,  and  its  first  president, 
spoken  of  with  awe  and  reverence;  the  first  mil 
lionaire  of  the  family  and  builder  of  its  Gramercy 
mansion.  .  .  .  Suddenly,  it  had  come  to  Bellair 
that  this  was  the  spirit  of  the  Store,  this  pic 
ture  was  its  symbol,  that  the  slow  strangulation 
of  the  souls  of  all  concerned  had  begun  in  that 
white  head,  the  planting  of  this  bed  of  crooked 
canes. 


One  morning  when  Bellair  was  well  into  his  third 
year  with  the  printing-firm,  the  silence  was  broken 
on  the  lower  floor.  He  was  shaken  that  day  into 
the  real  secret  of  the  house.  A  certain  Mr. 
Prentidd  had  been  in  conversation  with  Mr. 
Rawter  some  moments.  The  jovial  voice  of 

[32] 


LOT    &    COMPANY:    i 


the  head-salesman  was  without  significance  to 
those  near  his  partition — a  part  of  the  rou 
tine.  Mr.  Prentidd  had  invented  a  combina 
tion  ledger  and  voucher-file  that  was  having  some 
sale  in  America,  being  manufactured  and  dis 
tributed  by  Lot  &  Company.  Mr.  Rawter  on  a 
recent  trip  abroad  had  been  empowered  to  dis 
pose  of  the  English  rights.  The  result,  it  now 
appeared,  did  not  prove  satisfactory  to  the  in 
ventor.  The  voice  of  the  latter  was  raised.  One 
felt  the  entire  building  subside  into  a  quivering 
hush. 

"I  tell  you,  sir,  I  don't  trust  you.  1  have  heard 
in  fact  that  the  only  way  you  could  hurt  your 
reputation  here  in  New  York  or  on  the  road  would 
be  to  tell  the  truth." 

To  Bellair  there  was  something  deeply  satisfy 
ing  in  that  remark  of  the  inventor's — something 
long  awaited  and  very  good.  He  saw  Mr.  Seth 
arise,  his  chin  moving  in  a  sickly  fashion,  a  very 
old  pathetic  Mr.  Seth.  He  realised  that  Mr. 
Rawter  had  laughed — that  something  had  been 
burned  from  that  laugh.  Mr.  Prentidd  was  hur 
ried  forth,  and  the  nullifying  system  began.  Mr. 
Jabez  emerged  from  his  father's  office  and  turn 
ing  to  Broadwell  at  the  advertising-desk,  said  in 
a  tone  universally  penetrative: 

"What  a  pity  that  Mr.  Prentidd  drinks.  There 
are  few  men  finer  to  deal  with  when  he  is 
himself." 

[33] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 


Mr.  Seth,  in  his  chair  again,  sitting  frog-like 
and  gasping,  remarked  to  Mr.  Sproxley  across  the 
distance:  "I  really  must  ask  Mr.  Prentidd  to 
come  to  us  earlier  in  the  day.  He's  far  too  worthy 
a  man  to  disgrace  himself  in  this  way." 

Bellair  wondered  that  the  point  of  Mr.  Pren- 
tidd's  remark  seemed  entirely  lost.  As  for  him 
self  he  counted  it  worthy  of  regard.  The  episode 
was  but  begun.  The  inventor  returned  imme 
diately,  just  as  Mr.  Rawter  was  stepping  out. 
The  two  men  met  in  the  main  corridor.  It  ap 
peared  that  Mr.  Prentidd  repeated  a  certain  ques 
tion,  for  the  head-salesman  replied,  the  roundness 
of  the  joviality  gone  from  his  voice: 

"I  tell  you,  Mr.  Prentidd,  the  situation  has 
changed.  I  could  not  dispose  of  the  English  order 
at  a  better  figure  to  save  my  soul.  I  extracted 
every  cent  for  you  and  for  the  House." 

"I  don't  believe  you.  Other  matters  of  the 
same  kind  do  better.  If  you  speak  the  truth,  you 
made  a  very  bad  bargain  for  yourself  and  what  is 
more  important,  for  me " 

The  least  like  an  inventor  imaginable,  a  most 
physical  person,  Mr.  Prentidd,  with  a  fiery  sense 
of  his  own  rights  and  a  manner  as  soft  as  his  voice 
was  penetrating.  He  turned  a  leisurely  look  of 
scorn  at  Mr.  Rawter,  half-stare  and  half-smile, 
then  appeared  to  perceive  the  elder  Mr.  Wether- 
bee  for  the  first  time.  The  old  man  arose.  Bel- 
lair  felt  the  agony  of  expectancy  far  back  among 

[34] 


LOT    &   COMPANY:    i 

the  stock-piles.  The  inventor  shot  straight  at 
the  vice-president: 

"You're  an  old  man.  I'll  trust  your  word. 
You're  an  old  man  and  a  Quaker — yes,  I'll  take 
your  word.  Your  man,  Rawter,  says  he  could 
get  only  seven  and  one-half  cents'  royalty  for  me 
on  my  Nubian  file  from  England.  I  say  it's  only 
half  what  I  should  get.  Is  it  true — remember 
you're  old.  Is  it  true1?" 

Prentidd's  face  had  power  in  it,  exasperation 
and  the  remains  of  a  laugh.  It  appeared  that  he 
was  content  to  take  a  gambler's  chance  and  close 
the  ugly  business  on  Mr.  Seth's  word. 

The  old  man's  eye  roved.  He  looked  sick  and 
shaken.  He  found  the  eyes  of  his  son  Eben  which 
were  full  of  terror  and  pity  and  hope. 

"Answer  me.  Could  Lot  &  Company  get  no 
more  than  fifteen  cents  altogether  on  the  English 
patents?" 

Mr.  Wetherbee's  lips  moved.  "That's  all 
we  could  get,  Mr.  Prentidd.  I'm  sorry,"  he 
said. 

For  an  instant  Mr.  Prentidd  stood  there.  It 
was  evident  that  he  had  expected  a  different 
answer.  True  to  his  promise  to  take  the  old  man's 
word,  however,  he  turned  on  his  heel  and  walked 
out. 

On  the  high  sloping  desk  before  Bellair's  eyes, 
a  big  ledger  lay  open.  He  had  turned  during  the 
talk  to  the  transaction  of  Prentidd — Lot  &  Com- 
[**], 


LOT     &      COMPANY 


pany.  The  English  disposal  had  been  arranged  for 
at  twenty-five  cents  the  file,  royalty.  Apparently 
Mr.  Prentidd  had  agreed  upon  an  even  split,  but 
Lot  &  Company  had  taken  seventeen  and  the 
fraction. 

Bellair  was  ill.  The  nausea  crept  down  through 
his  limbs,  and  up  to  his  throat.  The  thing  had 
worked  out  before  him  with  such  surety  and 
clarity.  The  head  of  Mr.  Sproxley  moved  about 
as  if  on  a  swivel,  his  body  in  writing  position 
still.  Presently  he  stepped  down  from  his  high 
stool,  and  came  to  Bellair's  side.  Placing  his  pen 
behind  his  ear,  he  lifted  the  ledger  from  under 
Bellair's  eyes,  his  lips  compressed  with  the  effort. 
Then  he  placed  it  on  his  own  desk  to  close  it 
tenderly,  after  which  it  was  taken  to  its  niche 
in  the  vault. 

The  office  was  silent.  Just  now  Bellair's  eyes 
turned  as  if  subtly  attracted  to  the  place  where 
Eben  Wetherbee  sat.  The  young  man's  smile- 
less  eyes,  almost  insane  with  apprehension  and 
sadness,  were  turned  with  extraordinary  intent 
upon  the  place  where  his  father  sat.  Bellair's 
followed.  The  old  man  sat  plumped  in  his  chair; 
he  gulped,  tried  to  turn.  His  face  looked  as  if 
he  heard  a  ghost  whispering.  Yet  he  seemed  un 
able  to  trust  himself,  hardly  daring  to  meet  the 
eyes  that  awaited.  His  hands  lifted  to  the  papers 
before  him,  but  did  not  feel  properly.  He  seemed 
a  man  of  eighty.  Mr.  Eben  came  forward  at 

[36] 


LOT    &    COMPANY:    i 


last  and  asked  Mr.  Sproxley  if  he  might  look  at 
the  Prentidd  transaction. 

"It  isn't  posted  yet,  Mr.  Eben,"  said  the 
cashier. 

At  the  side  door  at  closing  time,  Bellair  hap 
pened  to  pass  a  party  of  young  women  coming 
down  from  the  bindery.  One  was  saying: 

"...  and  Mr.  Prentidd  was  quite  helpless 
after  the  scene — so  that  they  had  to  call  a  taxi- 
cab  for  him.  Isn't  it  dreadful  he  drinks  so*?" 

There  was  a  personal  result  for  Bellair,  which 
he  at  no  time  misunderstood. 

"We  have  considered  creating  a  position  for 
you  next  to  Mr.  Sproxley,"  said  the  elder  Mr. 
Wetherbee,  the  second  morning  following. 

Bellair  bowed. 

"Since  you  have  been  with  us  less  than  three 
years,  this  is  very  good  comment  on  the  character 
of  your  services  and  our  hope  for  your  future 
with  us " 

"What  additional  salary  goes  with  the  posi 
tion4?"  Bellair  had  asked. 

"If  I  followed  my  own  inclination,  it  would 
be  considerable.  I  have  been  able  to  secure  for 
you,  however,  but  a  slight  increase " 

This  was  one  of  Mr.  Seth's  little  ways.  He 
added  hopes  of  fine  quality.  There  was  a  further 
point : 

"You  will  at  times  handle  considerable  money 
137] 


LOT     &      COMPANY 

and  we  must  insist  upon  your  putting  in  trust  for 
us  the  sum  of  two  thousand  dollars." 

"I  haven't  two  thousand  dollars,  Mr.  Wether- 
bee,"  Bellair  said. 

"Of  course,  we  trust  you.  It  is  a  form — a 
form,  nevertheless,  upon  which  a  valuable  rela 
tion  of  this  kind  should  be  placed  on  a  business 
basis." 

Bellair  repeated. 

"But  you  have  friends " 

"Not  with  two  thousand  dollars'  surety  for  me 
— no  friend  like  that." 

"Banks  insist  upon  this — among  those  em 
ployes  who  handle  much  money " 

"I  know — but  that  amount  cannot  be  ar 
ranged." 

"How  much  can  you  put  in  trust  available 
to  Lot  &  Company  in  event  of  your  depar 
ture " 

"I  have  slightly  less  than  one  thousand 
dollars " 

"Could  you  raise  one  thousand  dollars'?" 

"With  some  effort." 

"Of  course,  it  will  draw  interest  for  you " 

"I  understand  these  affairs." 

The  matter  was  referred  to  the  next  day  when 
it  was  decided  to  accept  Bellair's  amount  of  one 
thousand  dollars,  which  Lot  &  Company  could 
not  touch  without  his  consent,  except  in  the  event 
of  his  departure  with  company  funds;  and  which 

[38] 


LOT   &   COMPANY:   i 

Bellair  could  not  draw  without  written  state 
ment  from  Lot  &  Company  to  the  effect  that  he 
was  leaving  with  a  balanced  account. 

Thereafter  he  was  one  with  Mr.  Sproxley  in 
the  financial  management,  under  the  eye  of  Seth 
Wetherbee.  One  by  one  he  learned  the  points  of 
the  system.  Wherever  the  accounts  had  run  over 
a  series  of  years,  there  were  byways  of  loot.  These 
pilferings  were  not  made  at  once,  on  the  same 
basis  that  a  gardener  does  not  cut  asparagus  for 
market  from  young  roots.  The  plants  were  en 
couraged  to  establish  themselves.  After  that 
the  open  market  was  supplied  with  a  certain  out 
put,  the  rest  belonging  to  Lot  &  Company's  table. 
It  frequently  occurred  to  Bellair  with  a  sort  of 
enveloping  darkness  that  he  had  the  institution 
in  his  power;  and  with  a  different  but  equal  force 
that  he  had  a  life  position  in  all  naturalness ;  that 
his  life  would  be  spent  with  slowly  increasing 
monetary  reward  for  juggling  the  different  ac 
counts — the  field  of  crooked  canes  which  was  the 
asparagus-bed  of  Lot  &  Company.  He  did  not 
like  it.  He  was  not  happy;  and  yet  he  realised 
that  the  adjustments  his  nature  had  already  made 
to  the  facts,  suggested  an  entire  adjustment  later, 
the  final  easy  acceptance. 

3 

Bellair  had  thought  many  times  of  getting 
out  from  under  the  die,  but  it  never  came  to 

[39] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 


him  with  quite  the  force  as  on  that  Monday 
morning,  after  watching  the  Jade  fare  forth  from 
the  Brooklyn  water-front.  Something  had  turned 
within  him  as  a  result  of  that  little  pilgrimage, 
something  that  spurred  to  radicalism  and  self- 
assertion.  At  no  time  had  Bellair  credited  him 
self  with  a  fairer  honesty  than  most  men.  He 
had  never  given  it  a  large  part  of  thinking. 
Roughly  he  had  believed  that  to  be  honest  is  the 
common  lot.  The  corruption  in  the  office  which 
he  could  not  assimilate  had  to  do  with  extensive 
ramifications,  its  lying  to  itself.  The  instant  seiz 
ing  upon  Mr.  Prentidd's  alleged  weakness  on  the 
part  of  the  younger  Lot  and  the  elder  Wetherbee ; 
the  action  of  Mr.  Sproxley  with  the  ledger;  the 
subtle  will-breaking  and  spiritual  blinding  of  all 
the  employes  in  a  process  that  never  slept  and 
was  operative  in  every  thought  and  pulse  of  the 
establishment — the  extent  and  talent  of  these, 
and  the  untellable  blackness  of  it  all,  prevailed 
upon  Bellair  with  the  force  of  a  life-impression. 
Bellair's  present  devil  was  a  kind  of  inertia. 
Granting  that  the  Unknowable  had  been  charged 
with  periods  of  intense  action  of  several  kinds, 
the  recent  half -decade  might  be  regarded  as  its 
reflex  condition.  There  is  an  ebb  and  flow  to  all 
things,  and  it  is  easier  to  adjust  Bellair's  years 
at  Lot  &  Company  as  a  sort  of  resting  period 
for  his  faculties,  than  to  accept  a  constitutional 
inertia  in  his  case,  for  subsequent  events  do  not 

[40] 


LOT    &    COMPANY:    i 

quite  bear  that  out.  He  doubtless  belonged  to 
that  small  class  of  down-town  men  who  do  their 
work  well  enough,  but  without  passion,  who  have 
faced  the  modern  world  and  its  need  of  bread  and 
cake,  and  who  have  compromised,  giving  hours  in 
exchange  for  essential  commodities,  but  nothing 
like  the  full  energies  of  their  lives.  It  is  a  way 
beset  with  pitfalls,  but  the  unavoidable  result  of 
a  system  that  multiplies  products  and  profits  and 
minimizes  the  chances  for  fine  workmanship  on 
every  hand.  Moreover  in  Bellair's  case  there  is  a 
philosophical  detachment  to  be  considered.  The 
aims  and  purports  of  the  printing  establishment 
were  coldly  and  absolutely  material.  These  did 
not  challenge  him  to  any  fine  or  full  expenditure 
of  his  powers;  and  if  he  had  touched  that  higher 
zone  of  philosophy  which  makes  a  consecration  of 
the  simplest  and  the  heaviest  tasks,  he  had  at  least 
found  it  impracticable  to  make  it  work  among  the 
systems  of  Lot  &  Company's  business. 

The  two  years  or  more  since  he  was  made  assist 
ant  cashier  had  brought  many  further  items  and 
exhibits.  He  was  now  used  on  the  left  hand  side 
of  the  throne,  developed  in  the  darkness-depart 
ment  already  overworked,  the  eye  of  which  was 
Mr.  Seth  and  the  hand,  Mr.  Sproxley.  For  as 
yet  Bellair  believed  that  even  Eben  Wetherbee 
had  only  suspicions.  This  was  the  bite  of  the 
whole  drama.  There  were  men  in  the  building 
who  would  have  died  for  their  conviction  that  the 


LOT     &     COMPANY 

House  was  honest.  You  might  have  told  these 
men  that  Lot  &  Company  was  a  morgue  of  con 
servatism;  that  having  existed  under  a  certain 
policy  for  seventy-five  years,  was  the  chief  reason 
for  its  changing;  that  free,  unhampered  genius 
never  found  utterance  through  that  House — and 
any  of  a  dozen  clerks  would  have  laughed,  spoken 
proudly  of  unerring  dividends  and  uncanny  stabil 
ity,  granting  the  rest.  But  that  Lot  &  Company 
was  structurally  crooked  was  incredible  except  to 
the  few  who  performed  the  trick.  Bellair  knew, 
for  instance,  that  his  best  friend  in  the  office, 
Broadwell,  head  of  the  advertising,  was  inno 
cent.  .  .  . 

Monday  passed  without  his  giving  notice.  He 
quailed  before  the  questions  that  would  be  asked. 
If  it  were  not  for  the  one  thousand  dollars,  he 
would  have  escaped  with  a  mere  "Good-night," 
though  a  panic  would  have  started  until  the  Com 
pany  was  assured  of  the  innocence  of  his  depar 
ture.  As  for  a  panic,  Lot  &  Company  had  that 
coming,  he  thought.  Now  he  knew  that  he  would 
not  be  able  to  get  his  surety-deposit  until  all  was 
made  certain  in  his  regard  by  the  firm.  .  .  . 

Bellair  wasn't  greedy,  nor  caught  in  any  great 
desire  for  wealth.  He  had  fallen  into  the  Down 
town  Stream,  but  did  not  belong.  Every  month 
had  weakened  him.  He  disliked  to  lose  his  begin 
nings  toward  competence;  all  the  subtle  pressures 
of  Lot  &  Company  worked  upon  him  not  to 

[42] 


LOT    &    COMPANY:    i 

change.  There  was  no  other  way  open.  He  had 
been  touched  by  the  fear  of  fear — a  sort  of  poor- 
house  horror  that  dogs  men  up  into  the  millions 
and  down  to  the  grave.  In  a  way,  he  had  become 
slave  to  the  Job.  He  even  had  the  suspicion  that 
more  men  maim  their  souls  by  sticking  to  their 
jobs  than  by  any  dissipation.  This  is  the  way  to 
the  fear  of  fear — the  insane  undertow  of  modern 
materialism. 

He  had  tried  to  find  peace  outside  his  work  in 
music  and  different  philanthropies,  but  the  people 
he  met,  their  seriousness,  perhaps  more  than  any 
thing  else,  and  the  vanity  of  their  intellectualism, 
aroused  his  sense  of  humour.  Bellair  believed  in 
the  many,  but  was  losing  belief  in  himself.  Often 
he  had  turned  back  to  evenings  in  the  room,  and 
realised  that  the  days  were  draining  him  too  much 
for  his  own  real  expression  of  any  kind.  Always 
he  felt  that  Lot  &  Company  was  too  strong  for 
his  temper,  that  his  edge  was  dulled  in  every  con 
tact.  From  his  depressions,  he  saw  ahead  only 
two  ways — a  life  of  this,  or  a  moment  in  which 
he  had  Lot  &  Company  in  his  power  unequivo- 
cably.  The  last  was  poisonous,  and  he  knew  it. 
He  would  have  to  fall  considerably  to  profit  by 
this  sort  of  thing,  but  the  inevitable  conclusion 
of  the  whole  matter,  was  that  the  life  with  Lot  & 
Company  was  slowly  but  surely  getting  him  down. 

On  Tuesday  noon,  Mr.  Seth  asked  him  to  take 
to  lunch  a  certain  young  stationer  from  Philadel- 

[43] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 


phia,  named  Filbrick.  They  were  made  ac 
quainted  in  the  corridor.  Passing  out,  Bellair 
and  his  companion  met  the  smile  of  Mr.  Sproxley. 
Bellair  began  the  formula  of  the  cashier's  abso 
lute  and  autocratic  integrity.  He  did  not  really 
hear  himself,  until  he  reached  this  part: 

"I  happen  to  be  in  the  financial  department. 
Two  or  three  times  each  year,  the  whole  office  is 
thrown  into  a  mess  over  some  little  strayed  ac 
count " 

He  stopped.  It  was  less  that  he  was  saying 
this,  than  that  he  had  come  so  far  without  a  nudge 
from  within.  They  had  passed  the  big  front 
doors,  and  met  the  wind  of  the  street  before  he 
realised  how  deep  the  mannerism  of  the  establish 
ment  had  prevailed  upon  him.  The  process  had 
passed  almost  into  fulfilment  before  the  truth 
within  him  had  stirred  from  its  sleep.  ...  A  very 
grey  day.  All  through  that  luncheon  he  had  found 
himself  at  angles  from  his  companion,  in  strategic 
hollows,  never  in  the  level  open.  It  wasn't  that 
he  was  different  from  usual,  but  that  he  was 
watching  himself  more  shrewdly.  His  inner  co 
herence  was  repeatedly  broken,  though  the  outer 
effects  were  not.  He  had  never  perceived  before 
with  such  clarity  that  a  man  cannot  be  square 
and  friendly  to  another  man,  when  his  mind  and 
critical  faculties  are  busy  appraising  him,  while 
his  eyes  and  lips  approved  and  assuaged.  Bellair 
that  day  realised  his  moral  derangement — that  he 

[44] 


LOT    &    COMPANY:    i 

must  be  ripped  open  and  his  displaced  organs  cor 
rected  once  for  all,  if  anything  decent  was  to  come 
from  him  ever  again.  .  .  .  He  was  still  thinking 
in  mid-afternoon,  in  the  very  trance  of  these 
thoughts,  when  he  happened  to  look  into  Mr. 
Sproxley's  face.  It  seemed  to  him  that  there  was 
a  movement  of  most  pitiful  activities  back  of  the 
red  and  black  of  Mr.  Sproxley's  eyes. 

There  was  much  mental  roving  on  Bellair's  part 
that  week;  moments  in  which  the  Monday  morn 
ing  abandon  returned,  and  his  self-amazement  of 
the  Tuesday  luncheon,  upon  discovering  how 
deeply  his  thoughts  were  imbedded  in  the  prevail 
ing  lie.  New  York  and  the  salary  clutched  him 
hard  at  intervals;  so  that  he  saw  something  of 
what  was  meant  to  give  it  up;  also  he  saw  that 
dreams  are  dreams.  .  .  .  Thousands  of  other 
young  men  would  be  glad  to  do  his  work,  even 
his  dirty  work. 

He  had  just  returned  from  lunch  on  Friday 
when  he  started,  to  perceive  the  ruddy  face  and 
powerful  frame  of  Mr.  Prentidd  darken  the  front 
door — which  he  had  not  done  since  his  voice  was 
last  raised.  Bellair  was  conscious  of  Seth  Wether- 
bee  hitching  up  his  chair  and  a  peculiar  gasping 
cough  from  the  old  man,  but  his  own  eyes  did  not 
turn  from  the  caller's  face — which  moved  slowly 
about,  the  pale  little  exchange-miss  behind  the 
first  barrier,  attentive  to  catch  the  stranger's  eye 
and  answer  his  question.  The  inventor  glanced 

[45] 


LOT      &      COMPANY 

slowly  among  desks  and  doors.  His  eye  sought 
Sproxley,  and  the  furtive  black  eyes  of  the  latter 
shot  down  to  his  ledger  as  if  crippled  on  the  wing. 
His  eyes  held  Bellair  and  the  young  man  felt  the 
scorn  of  ages  burn  through  his  veins — something 
new  to  his  later  life,  yet  deep  in  his  heart,  some 
thing  he  had  known  somewhere  before,  as  if  he 
had  betrayed  a  good  king,  and  his  punishment 
had  been  to  look  that  king  in  the  eye  before  he 
died.  Bellair  had  never  hated  himself  as  at  that 
moment,  and  certainly  never  before  felt  himself 
identified  body  and  soul  with  modern  corruption, 
as  now  with  scorn  like  a  fiery  astringent  in  his 
veins.  The  eyes  of  Mr.  Prentidd  finally  settled 
upon  the  figure  of  Mr.  Seth  Wetherbee,  their  rays 
striking  him  abeam  as  it  were.  The  old  man 
hunched  closer  if  anything,  but  did  not  raise  his 
head. 

The  inventor  was  a  physical  person ;  his  morals 
of  a  physical  nature;  his  Nubian  file  of  the  same 
dimension  and  method  of  mind — a  strong  man 
who  had  to  do  with  pain  and  pleasure  of  the  flesh ; 
his  ideas  of  possessions  were  of  the  world.  He 
moved  softly,  a  soft,  dangerous  smile  upon  his 
lips,  to  the  desk  of  the  vice-president  and  jerked 
up  a  chair.  The  old  man  had  to  raise  his  head. 
It  was  as  if  the  scene  of  three  years  ago  was  now 
to  be  continued,  for  Bellair  saw  the  sorrowful, 
lengthened  face  of  Mr.  Eben  turn  from  his  desk  in 
the  other  room  and  bend  toward  his  father,  whose 

[46] 


LOT    &   COMPANY:    i 


face  was  intensely  pathetic  now  in  its  forced  smile 
of  greeting. 

"You're  not  looking  well — in  fact,  you're  look 
ing  old,  Mr.  Wetherbee,  as  if  you  would  die  pretty 
soon." 

"I'm  not  so  strong  as  I  was,  Mr.  Prentidd." 

Bellair  couldn't  have  done  it,  as  the  inventor 
did.  Had  the  man  stolen  and  ruined  him — he 
could  not  have  pushed  on  after  the  pathos  of  that. 

"You're  a  dirty  old  man — and  you'll  die  hard 
and  soon — for  you  lied  to  me  when  I  trusted  you. 
I  suppose  you  have  lied  to  everybody,  all  your 
life "  * 

Thus  he  baited  Mr.  Seth  feature  by  feature, 
pointing  out  the  disorder  of  liver,  kidney-puffs,  the 
general  encroachments  of  death,  in  fact.  Then  he 
pictured  the  death  itself — all  of  a  low  literary 
strength  as  was  Mr.  Prentidd's  cold  habit.  The 
answer  of  Mr.  Seth  was  an  incoherent  helpless 
ness,  his  lips  moving  but  with  nothing  rational 
under  the  sun,  as  if  he  had  been  called  by  some  in 
exorable  but  superior  being  to  an  altitude  where  he 
was  too  evil  to  breathe,  and  begged  piteously  to 
be  allowed  to  sink  back  and  die.  It  was  Mr. 
Eben  who  stopped  it,  coming  forward  quietly,  his 
steps  rounded,  his  shoulders  bent,  his  face  seeming 
brittle  as  chalk  in  its  fixity.  The  thing  that  he 
said  was  quite  absurd: 

"You  really  mustn't,  Mr.  Prentidd.  It  is  too 
much." 

[47] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 

The  inventor  turned  to  him.  His  look  was  that 
of  a  man  who  turns  a  large  morsel  in  his  mouth. 

"Perhaps  you're  right,"  he  said  with  a  slow 
laugh.  "There  is  this  delicacy  to  old  liars.  Come 
give  me  my  check — and  I  will  go." 

"Your  check "  Mr.  Eben  repeated. 

"Yes,  now — the  check  for  the  difference  which 
your  father's  lie  cost  me  three  years  ago.  I  have 
seen  the  English  books " 

Now  young  Mr.  Jabez  Lot  came  forward : 

"Of  course,  if  there  has  been  error  or  any 
breach  of  contract — of  course,  you  see  a  check  off 
hand  such  as  you  ask  is  out  of  the  question " 

The  elder  Mr.  Wetherbee  sank  back  to  his  desk; 
and  now  the  dreamer,  Mr.  Nathan  Lot,  appeared 
with  a  frightened  word  of  amelioration.  Mr.  Eben 
stood  by  the  caller  to  the  last  moment.  The  latter 
was  not  at  his  best  in  this  period — his  threats  and 
anger  amounted  to  the  usual  result.  Lot  &  Com 
pany  refused  to  deal  further,  referring  him  to  its 
attorney.  The  strangest  part  of  it  all  was  the 
gathering  of  three  around  Mr.  Seth  Wetherbee's 
desk — Mr.  Jabez  and  his  father  with  Mr.  Eben. 
Yet  the  concern  of  the  Lots,  father  and  son,  had 
nothing  to  do  with  dangerous  exhaustion  of  the 
vice-president. 

"We  have  beaten  him,"  the  dreamer  said  softly. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Jackson  will  do  the  rest,"  said  Mr. 
Jabez.  Mr.  Jackson  was  the  attorney. 

Bellair,  even  with  his  training,  had  to  take  it 

[48] 


LOT    &    COMPANY:    i 

slowly.  "Beaten  him" — that  meant  that  the 
money  had  not  passed  to  Mr.  Prentidd.  It  was 
now  with  the  law  and  the  years — millions  against 
a  mere  inventor.  The  psychic  slaughtering  of  the 
old  vice-president  did  not  count — nothing  of 
words  counted.  The  firm  had  won,  because  the 
firm  had  not  been  knocked  down  and  its  pockets 
rifled — that  would  have  meant  loss.  Not  having 
been  forced  to  pay,  they  had  won.  .  .  .  Even  as 
Bellair  thought  this  out  in  full,  the  system  of 
salving  had  begun  from  all  the  firm-heads  for  the 
benefit  of  those  who  heard.  It  was  simply  ar 
ranged  and  stated.  .  .  .  Their  worst  fears  were 
realised:  Mr.  Prentidd  was  insane.  .  .  .  Mr. 
Seth  went  home  early.  Bellair  knew  that  Mr. 
Eben  had  not  been  able  to  turn  all  responsibility 
to  Mr.  Jackson.  .  .  .  That  afternoon  Bellair 
reached  his  decision — in  fact,  he  found  it  finished 
within  him  after  the  scene. 

Yet  he  could  not  walk  out  at  once,  since  he 
must  have  the  amount  of  his  surety,  the  item  of 
interest  and  salary  due.  A  certain  project  in  his 
mind  prevented  the  possibility  of  waiting  several 
days  for  this  amount  to  be  detached  from  Lot  & 
Company.  Especially  now  after  the  final  scene, 
they  would  make  themselves  very  sure  of  his  ac 
counts  and  intentions.  Late  that  Friday  after 
noon,  it  happened  that  considerable  cash  came  in 
after  banking  hours.  Bellair's  custom  was  to  put 
this  in  a  safety-vault  until  the  following  day. 

[49] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 

This  time  he  held  out  the  amount  of  his  deposit 
and  two  years'  interest,  together  with  the  amount 
of  his  salary  to  date,  locking  up  with  the  balance 
his  order  of  release  to  the  account  of  the  Trust 
company.  He  determined  to  write  a  letter  to 
Nathan  Lot  at  once.  .  .  . 

4 

The  City  had  a  different  look  to  him  that  night 
in  his  new  sense  of  detachment.  There  were 
moments  at  dinner  in  which  he  felt  as  if  he  were 
already  forgotten  and  out  of  place.  Bellair  had 
only  known  the  one  landlady  in  his  five  years 
of  New  York;  yet  he  knew  this  one  no  better 
now  than  at  the  end  of  the  first  month.  Perhaps 
there  was  nothing  more  to  learn.  She  was 
anaemic  of  body,  and  yet  did  prodigious  tasks, 
very  quiet,  very  grey;  and  days  to  her  were 
like  endless  rooms  of  the  same  house,  all  grim 
and  uniform.  She  had  her  little  ways,  her  con 
tinual  suspicions,  but  all  her  faith  was  gone. 
Without  church,  without  friends,  without  any 
new  thought  or  gossip,  her  view  of  the  world  was 
neither  magnified  nor  diminished,  but  greatly 
shortened,  her  eyes  were  almost  incredibly  dim. 
There  was  nothing  to  love  about  her.  She  was 
not  excessively  clean,  nor  excellent  in  cooking. 
She  was  like  wax-work,  a  little  dusty,  her  mind 
and  all.  Bellair  paid  her  for  the  week,  and  added 

a  present : 

[50] 


LOT    &    COMPANY:    i 


"Which  I  forgot  on  your  birthday,"  he  said. 

She  held  it  in  her  hand.  It  did  not  seem  hers. 
The  apathy  extended  to  all  that  was  not  actually 
due ;  all  expectancy  dead. 

"You  mean  you  are  giving  this  to  me?" 

"Yes." 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Bellair, — perhaps  you  will 
want  it  some  time  again." 

He  wrote  the  letter  to  Mr.  Nathan,  but  decided 
not  to  mail  it  until  the  last  thing.  He  was  rest 
less  over  the  irregularity  in  the  money  affair — 
had  to  assure  himself  again  and  again  that  he 
was  taking  not  a  cent  that  did  not  belong  to  him. 
The  boarding-house  was  in  the  upper  Forties  be 
tween  Broadway  and  Sixth  avenue,  and  though 
he  usually  turned  eastward  for  pleasure,  this  night 
he  went  among  his  own  people,  where  even  a 
nickle  was  medium  of  exchange.  A  stimulant  did 
not  exactly  relieve  his  tension.  His  sense  was 
that  of  loneliness,  as  he  chose  a  table  in  Brandt's 
indoor  garden. 

A  mixed  quartette  presently  broke  into  song  be 
hind  him.  Bellair's  thoughts  were  far  from  song. 
He  was  not  expectant  of  music  that  would  satisfy. 
Still  something  tugged  him — again  and  again — 

CZJ  C->C-»  C*  v-7 

until  he  really  listened,  but  without  turning.  It 
was  the  voice  of  the  contralto  that  was  making 
an  impression  deep  where  his  need  was.  There 
seemed  an  endless  purple  background  to  it,  like  a 
night  of  stars  and  south  wind;  the  soft,  deep 

[51] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 

volume  rolled  forth  for  him,  and  found  itself  ex 
pressed  without  amazement  or  travail.  He  turned 
now.  The  one  voice  was  from  the  throat  of  a 
girl,  just  a  girl,  and  though  it  was  a  gusty  Novem 
ber,  she  was  still  wearing  her  summer  hat. 

The  face  was  merely  pretty,  but  the  voice  was 
drama;  flame  of  poppies  in  the  presence  of  a 
fabulous  orchid.  Bellair's  heart  may  have  been 
particularly  sensitive  to  impression  that  night. 
The  big  brilliant  den  known  as  Brandt's  did  not 
seem  to  have  been  cast  into  any  enchantment ;  and 
yet  it  was  likely  that  Bellair  knew  as  much  about 
music  natively  and  by  acquisition  as  any  one  pres 
ent.  In  fact,  he  had  reached  the  state  of  apprecia 
tion  which  dares  to  enjoy  that  which  appeals  and 
to  say  so,  having  endured  for  several  winters  a 
zeal  which  rushed  him  from  one  to  another 
musical  event,  intolerant  of  all  save  classic  sym 
phonies.  It  wasn't  the  music  that  held  him  now — 
a  high  flowery  operatic  matter  not  particularly 
interesting  nor  well-done — but  the  contralto  was 
just  a  little  girl,  and  the  round  girlish  breast  which 
held  nothing  miraculous  for  the  many,  was  send 
ing  forth  tones  that  quivered  through  Bellair, 
spine  and  thigh,  and  thrilling  his  mind  with  a 
profound  passion  to  do  something  for  the  singer 
— an  intrinsic  and  clean  emotion,  but  one  which 
made  him  ashamed.  For  an  instant,  he  felt  him 
self  setting  out  on  the  great  adventure  of  his  life, 
the  faintest  aroma  of  its  romance  touching  his 

[52] 


LOT    &   COMPANY:    i 

senses ;  something  akin  to  his  dreams  in  the  prison 
of  Lot  &  Company,  and  which  he  had  not  sensed 
at  all  since  his  departure,  until  this  instant. 
Quickly  it  passed;  yet  he  had  the  sense  that 
this  great  romance  had  to  do  with  the  little 
singer. 

At  once  he  wanted  to  take  her  from  the  other 
three;  dreamed  of  working  for  her,  so  that  she 
might  have  the  chance  she  craved.  Of  course,  she 
wanted  something  terribly;  passionate  want  al 
ways  went  with  such  a  voice.  He  saw  her  future 
alone.  Some  vampire  of  a  manager  would  hear 
her.  She  would  tie  up — the  little  summer  hat 
told  him  that.  She  would  tie  up,  and  New  York 
would  take  her  bloom  before  the  flower  matured 
— would  take  more  than  her  little  song.  Here 
she  was  in  Brandt's  already,  and  singing  as  if  for 
the  angels. 

Bellair  was  four-fifths  undiscovered  country, 
as  are  all  men  but  the  very  few,  who  dare  to  be 
themselves.  Already  the  world  was  calling  to  him 
sharply  for  this  first  step  aside  from  the  worn 
highways  of  the  crowd.  He  had  not  been  normal 
to-night,  even  in  his  room ;  and  his  present  adven 
ture  had  already  summoned  forth  all  the  hateful 
reserves  of  his  training,  as  Prentidd's  departure 
had  started  the  lies  through  the  floors  and  halls 
of  Lot  &  Company.  His  heart  was  calling  out  to 
the  little  singer,  that  here  was  a  friend,  one  who 
understood  and  wanted  nothing  but  to  give;  yet 

[53] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 

all  that  he  had  learned  from  the  world  was  beating 
him  back  into  the  crowd. 

He  saw  that  the  music  had  hardly  penetrated 
the  vast  vulgar  throng.  New  York  is  so  accus 
tomed  to  be  amused,  to  dine  to  music  and  forget 
itself  in  various  entertainments,  that  the  quartette 
barely  held  its  own  against  the  routine  of  eating 
and  drink  and  the  voices  of  rising  stimulation. 
It  was  Bellair  who  started  the  little  applause  when 
the  first  number  was  over.  He  hated  to  do  it. 
The  clapping  of  hands  drew  to  himself  eyes  that 
he  did  not  care  to  cultivate,  but  it  seemed  the  only 
way  just  then  to  help  her  to  make  good. 

The  four  of  the  quartette  looked  at  him  curi 
ously,  appraising  his  value  as  a  critic,  perhaps. 
Was  he  drunk  or  really  appealed  to*?  Was  he 
worth  considering*?  Applause  at  any  price  is 
dearly  to  be  had.  They  took  him  in  good  faith, 
since  he  was  not  without  desirable  appearance. 
The  young  girl  and  the  tenor  arose  and  sang: 

"Oh,  that  we  two  were  Maying " 

The  old  song  was  a  kind  of  fulfilment  for 
Bellair,  and  preciously  wrung  his  heart.  He  had 
never  been  Maying;  wasn't  sure  what  sort  of  holi 
days  were  pulled  off  in  regular  Mayings;  but  he 
liked  the  song,  and  for  all  he  knew  the  familiar 
sentiment  was  evoked  bewitchingly.  Many  others 
now  caught  the  thrall.  These  things  are  infec 
tious.  From  hatred,  he  came  to  love  Brandt's — 
as  if  he  had  come  home,  and  had  been  long  away 

[54] 


LOT   &   COMPANY:   i 

hungering — as  if  this  were  life,  indeed.  .  .  . 
They  sang  the  last  verse  again,  and  sat  down  for 
hurried  refreshment.  The  four  were  very  near. 
The  young  girl  caught  Bellair's  eye,  regarded  him 
shyly  for  an  instant,  and  turned  to  whisper  to 
the  bass,  who  seemed  in  charge  of  the  four. 

".  .  .  Yes,  but  hurry  back.  We've  got  to  pull 
out  of  here." 

Bellair  wasn't  dangling.  Never  had  he  been 
more  intent  to  be  decent  and  helpful.  No  one 
knew  this.  Even  the  girl  was  far  from  expectant. 
.  .  .  She  sat  down  beside  him. 

"Hello,"  she  said.  "You  don't  live  in  New 
York,  do  you?" 

"Yes,  why?" 

"Oh,  you  looked  so  homesick — when  we  sang." 

Bellair's  heart  sank. 

"I  think  I  was  homesick.  What  may  I  order 
for  you?" 

"A  little  Rhine  wine — it's  very  good  here — and 
a  sandwich " 

The  waiter  was  standing  by.  Bellair  had  to 
clear  his  voice  before  ordering.  He  was  distressed 
— up  to  his  eyes  in  gloom  that  was  general  and 
without  name. 

5 
"Do  you  sing  in  other  places  to-night?" 

"Oh,  yes,  we're  just  beginning.  We're  on 
Broadway  at  eleven." 

[55] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 

"Where?" 

"First  at  Pastern's,  then  at  the  Castle." 

These  places  were  just  without  the  orbit  of 
extravagance.  She  knew  her  answer  was  not 
exactly  a  stock-raiser,  and  added: 

"But  I  expect  to  be  on  the  road  in  the 
Spring " 

"Who  with?" 

She  mentioned  a  light  opera  troupe  that  was 
just  short  of  broad  and  unqualified  approval — 
like  Brandt's  and  Pastern's — an  institution  as  yet 
without  that  mysterious  toppiness  which  needs  no 
props  and  meets  sanction  anywhere.  These  things 
are  exactly  ordered. 

"But  you  are  so  good — you  should  be  with  peo 
ple  who  would  help  you." 

She  looked  at  him  a  little  scornfully,  something 
of  weather  and  stress  under  the  summer  hat.  She 
decided  to  be  agreeable.  "They  all  say  that," 
she  said  wearily. 

"I'm  sorry.    I  said  just  what  I  thought." 

"Study — a  girl  without  a  cent!"  She  lowered 
her  voice :  "Go  with  better  people — before  one  is 
invited?  Swing  to  the  top  of  the  opera  before 
one  is  sufficiently  urged?  .  .  .  Why,  singing  isn't 
all.  One  must  do  more  than  sing " 

"I  don't  believe  that " 

"You  should  try.  Singing  won't  get  you 
across.  You've  got  to  act,  for  one  thing." 

He  was  relieved  that  she  did  not  discuss  the 
[56] 


LOT    &   COMPANY:    i 

angel  business,  which  is  forgotten  in  so  few  stones 
of  struggle  and  failure. 

"I  tell  you,  all  that  one  has  to  do  is  to  sing — 
when  one  sings  as  you  do." 

"I  have  heard  that  many  times,"  she  said  bit 
terly,  "from  people  not  in  the  fight.  They  didn't 
come  to  New  York  on  their  nerve — as  I  did.  I 
made  up  my  mind  not  to  be  afraid  of  wolves  or 
bears  or  cars — to  take  what  I  could  get,  and  wait 
until  somebody  beckoned  me  higher.  Meanwhile 
Pastern's  and  the  Castle  and  here " 

"I  wish  I  could  do  something  for  you." 

Her  eyes  gleamed  at  him. 

"You  need  money?"  he  asked. 

"I  need  money  so  terribly — that  it's  almost  a 
joke — but  what  do  you  want?" 

Bellair  rubbed  his  eyes,  and  smiled  a  little.    "I 
don't  know  what's  the  matter  with  me,  but  I  want 
to  do  something  for  you.     At  least,  I  did  want, 
just  that." 

"What  happened?" 

"It  isn't  a  thing  to  talk  or  think  about,  I'm 
afraid.  One  starts  thinking,  and  ends  by  wanting 
something — and  I  didn't  at  first.  What  I  said  at 
first  I  meant — nothing  more  nor  less." 

Her  lips  tightened.  "If  you  mean  just 
that " 

It  raked  him  within.  He  did  not  help  her  by 
speaking.  Somehow  he  had  expected  her  to  see 
that  he  had  meant  well.  It  was  always  a  mystery 

[57] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 

to  him  how  anything  fine  could  be  expected  of 
men,  if  women  were  not  so. 

"Of  course,  I  have  to  understand,"  she  added. 
"I  can  do  with  a  poor  room  and  poor  food,  but 
I  can't  get  anywhere  without  clothes.  ...  I  must 
go  now." 

"I  want  you  to  excuse  me  if  I've  given  you  the 
idea  of  my  being  rich.  I'm  not,  but  I  might  help 
you  some.  How  late  do  you  work*?" 

"One  o'clock." 

"Where  are  you  last?" 

"At  the  Castle." 

"And  what  time  do  you  get  there*?" 

"About  eleven-thirty." 

"I'll  be  there.  Sing  'Maying'  for  an  en 
core " 

She  made  believe  that  she  trusted  him. 

"We'll  sing  it  at  the  Castle  the  last  thing,"  she 
said,  leaving  hastily. 

No  ease  had  come  to  him.  His  thoughts  now 
were  not  the  same  as  those  which  had  come  during 
the  singing.  He  tried  to  put  them  away.  He 
didn't  like  the  idea  of  giving  her  money.  He 
knew  that  she  didn't  expect  to  see  him  again; 
also  that  if  he  did  come  she  would  accept  the  serv 
ice  of  a  stranger,  and  give  in  return  as  little  as  she 
could.  How  explicit  she  was,  already  touched 
with  the  cold  stone  of  the  world.  He  did  want 
to  help  her,  and  it  had  been  pure  at  first.  Talk 
as  usual  had  broken  the  beauty  of  that.  Sophis- 

[58] 


LOT    &    COMPANY:    i 

tication  and  self-consciousness  had  come;  her  face 
changing  more  and  more  as  the  moments  passed 
after  the  song.  New  York  had  taught  them  each 
their  parts.  It  had  been  her  thought  from  the  first 
that  he  was  looking  for  prey,  but  it  had  been  very 
far  from  his. 

Bellair  was  not  without  imagination.  He  saw 
himself  following  this  girl  in  a  future  time,  play 
ing  the  part  he  had  despised  in  other  men — the 
dumb,  slaving,  enduring  male;  she  continually 
expectant  of  his  services,  petulant,  unreasonable 
without  them.  For  the  first  time  the  question 
came  to  him :  Is  there  not  a  queer  sort  of  conquest 
in  the  lives  of  such  men1?  .  .  .  She  was  for  her 
self;  had  it  all  planned  out,  the  waiting,  and  what 
she  would  give  on  the  way  up,  beside  her  song. 
It  would  not  be  much ;  as  little  as  possible,  in  fact ; 
but  as  much  as  was  absolutely  demanded.  Bellair 
in  the  present  state  of  mind  seemed  to  object  to 
all  this  less  than  what  she  wanted  of  the  world — 
praise  and  fame. 

"She's  just  a  little  girl  after  all,"  he  muttered. 
"She  ought  to  have  her  chance." 

He  added  (easing  the  conception  a  little  for 
his  own  peace)  that  she  was  only  franker  and 
more  outspoken  than  other  women  he  had  known ; 
that  they  all  wanted  money  and  place,  and  wanted 
men  who  could  furnish  such  things.  Suddenly  it 
occurred  that  the  incident  automatically  supplied 
the  final  break  with  Lot  &  Company  and  New 

[59] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 

York.  He  laughed  aloud.  .  .  .  He  might  bor 
row  enough  in  time  to  make  up  the  amount  he 
gave  her  for  morning,  but  that  would  certainly 
be  a  betrayal  of  the  fiery  urge  that  had  whipped 
him  all  week  to  cross  over  into  a  new  life  and 
burn  the  last  bridge. 

He  took  his  bags  down  to  the  station,  arranging 
with  the  landlady  to  have  his  goods  stored  for  the 
present.  After  that  he  rambled,  a  grateful  fresh 
ness  in  the  cool  wind.  His  steps  led  through 
darker  streets,  where  he  startled  the  misery  from 
the  faces  of  the  forbidden  who  took  a  chance  on 
him.  Their  voices  would  whine;  they  couldn't 
help  it,  and  all  they  wanted  in  the  world  was 
money.  .  .  .  He  was  at  the  Castle  before  the 
quartette  came.  .  .  .  They  sang  and  Bel  lair 
dreamed. 

He  had  never  made  pretence  of  other  than  the 
commonest  lot;  yet  he  conned  now  an  early  man 
hood  that  made  later  years  utterly  common.  He 
followed  the  enticements  of  the  sea,  of  the  future, 
the  singing-girl  never  far  away,  the  rest  shadows 
and  sadness.  .  .  .  He  must  do  something  for  her. 
.  .  .  Rich  natural  tones  winged  forth  from  the 
breast  of  a  maid,  from  shoulders  so  delicate  and 
white.  He  would  make  and  keep  her  great;  here 
was  something  to  do,  to  work  for.  It  was  like 
finding  the  ultimate  secret.  He  knew  now  what 
had  been  the  matter  all  the  time — nothing  to 
work  for.  .  .  .  He  would  stand  between  her  and 

[60] 


LOT    &    COMPANY:    i 


all  that  he  knew  was  rotten — the  crowds  like  this 
at  the  Castle,  the  blurred  face  of  the  tenor  which 
was  both  sharp  and  soft,  the  tired,  tawdry  soprano, 
the  stupid  animal  of  a  bass.  And  Bellair,  in  the 
magnanimity  of  his  heart's  effusion,  included  him 
self  among  the  forces  of  destruction.  He  would 
keep  her  from  the  worst  of  himself,  by  all  means. 
.  .  .  She  kept  her  promise,  and  arose  with  the 
tenor  at  last : 

"Oh,  that  we  two  were  Maying " 

.  .  .  New  York  and  all  the  rest  reversed  again 
in  his  mind.  It  wasn't  rotten,  but  lavish  to  fur 
nish  everything  for  money — so  much  that  men 
and  women  were  lost  in  the  offerings,  and  did 
not  know  what  to  choose.  Yet  it  was  man's  busi 
ness  to  choose.  Bellair  listened  as  one  across 
the  world ;  as  if  he  had  been  gone  a  year  and  was 
thirsting  and  starving  to  get  back.  He  was  liter 
ally  longing  for  New  York,  with  its  ramifications 
all  about  him — yet  the  thing  he  wanted,  he  could 
not  touch.  It  was  like  a  sick  stomach  that  in 
fested  his  whole  nature  with  desire,  while  every 
thing  was  at  hand  but  the  exact  nameless  thing 
desired.  .  .  .  She  was  like  a  saint,  as  she  stood 
there,  her  mouth  so  pure,  her  features  so  pretty, 
her  voice  so  brave  and  tireless — starry  to  Bel 
lair,  a  night-voice  with  depths  and  heights 
and  dew-fragrance.  She  was  coming  to 
him. 

"You  look  just  the  same.    I  wouldn't  take  you 
[61] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 


for  a  New  Yorker.  .  .  .  Yes,  I  am  through  for 
to-night." 

"I  should  think  you'd  love  to  sing,"  he  said. 

The  remark  was  fatuous  to  her.  She  didn't 
know  that  a  year  ago  Bellair  wouldn't  have  dared 
to  say  anything  so  commonplace,  but  that  he  had 
come  back  to  this  simplicity  from  the  complica 
tion  of  classics  she  had  never  heard  of. 

"Tell  me,  what  do  you  want  most?"  he  asked 
earnestly.  "I  don't  mean  the  need  of  clothes. 
We've  covered  that " 

"I  want  all  that  a  voice  will  bring." 

"Great  salaries,  noise  wherever  you  go,  a  con 
tinual  performance  of  newspaper  articles'?" 

"Yes." 

"A  score  of  men  praying  for  favours'?" 

She  sipped  warily. 

"Don't  mind  my  question.  It  isn't  fair.  But 
tell  me,  doesn't  it  do  something  to  you — to  get 
even  a  man  like  me  going,  for  instance, — to  make 
him  all  different  and  full  of  pictures  that  haven't 
anything  to  do  with  the  case*?" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean." 

He  stared  at  her.  "You  ought  to.  You  do  it. 
I'm  not  talking  of  art  or  soul,  or  any  of  that  stuff. 
That  isn't  it.  I  mean  just  what  your  singing 
amounts  to  in  my  case.  It  means  New  York,  but 
not  the  routine  New  York — possibly  the  New 
York  that  might  be.  It  means  Maying — what 
ever  that  is " 

[62] 


LOT    &    COMPANY:    i 

"You  must  have  been  drinking  a  lot,  since  I 
left  Brandt's"  she  said  merrily. 

He  didn't  let  it  hurt  him,  and  was  miserable 
anyway.  "The  fact  is,  I  didn't  take  a  drink  since 
Sixth  avenue,  until  a  moment  ago." 

He  saw  that  she  was  debating  the  vital  matter 
of  the  evening — whether  he  was  a  piker  who  must 
be  shaken  presently,  or  whether  he  would  really 
make  good  on  his  offer  to  help  in  the  essentials  of 
career. 

"What's  your  name*?"  he  asked. 

"Bessie  Break." 

"And  where  could  I  find  you,  if  I  wanted  to 
write?' 

He  noted  her  swift  disappointment.  There 
was  positive  pain  in  the  air.  He  knew  well  what 
she  was  thinking,  though  her  sweet  face  covered 
well:  that  he  was  about  to  promise  to  send  the 
money  to  her,  that  ancient  beau  business.  She 
took  a  last  chance,  and  mentioned  a  booking 
agency  that  might  answer  for  a  permanent  ad 
dress. 

"I'll  want  to  write — I  feel  that.  And 
here,  Bessie,  if  you  don't  mind  my  saying 
'Bessie,'  I  can  spare  a  hundred  for  that 
wardrobe.  I'd  like  to  do  some  really  big  thing 
for  you." 

He  saw  tears  start  to  her  eyes,  but  was  not  car 
ried  out  of  reason  by  them.  She  had  wanted  the 
money  fiercely  and  it  had  come. 

[63] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 

"How  are  you  going  to  get  home1?"  he  asked, 
to  relieve  the  embarrassment. 

She  glanced  up  quickly. 

"I  don't  mean  that  I  want  to  take  you  home," 
he  said,  shocked  by  the  ugliness  of  the  world  that 
had  called  this  explanation  so  hastily.  "My  train 
needs  me.  .  .  .  Say,  Bessie,  men  haven't  supplied 
you  with  altogether  pleasant  experiences  so  far, 
have  they?' 

"I'll  get  a  car  home." 

He  gave  her  his  card. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said. 

"Better  let  me  get  you  a  cab  to-night.  It's 
late." 

She  thanked  him  again.  ...  At  the  curb,  as 
the  driver  backed  in,  Bessie  put  up  her  lips  to  him. 

".  .  .  Dear  singing-girl — I  didn't  ask  that." 

"It's  because  you  didn't,  I  think.  Really  that's 
it.  Oh,  thank  you.  Good-night." 

Bellair  beckoned  another  cab,  and  sank  back 
into  the  dark.  All  the  way  to  the  station,  and 
through  to  the  Savannah-Pullman,  he  was  wrench 
ing  himself  clear  from  something  like  a  passion 
to  turn  about  to  New  York.  At  the  last  moment, 
before  the  train  moved,  he  recalled  the  letter  to 
Mr.  Nathan,  and  hailed  a  station  porter  from 
the  step. 

"Please  mail  this  for  me,"  he  said,  bringing  up 
silver  with  the  letter. 

[64] 


PART  THREE:  THE  JADE:  II 


[65] 


PART   THREE 
THE    JADE:    II 


BELLAIR  had  to  wait  less  than  two  days 
in  Savannah,  for  the  Jade  had  made  a 
pretty  passage.  Impressions  rushed 
home  too  swift  for  his  mind  to  follow, 
as  he  stepped  aboard  from  the  cotton  dock;  the 
number  of  impressions,  he  did  not  know,  until  he 
began  the  inventory  in  his  cabin  afterward.  Last 
and  first  and  most  compelling,  however,  was  the 
spectacle  of  Stackhouse,  that  David  Hume  figure 
of  a  man,  reclining  in  his  cane-chair  of  similar 
vast  proportions  just  aft  of  the  main-shrouds.  A 
momentous  hammock  of  canes,  that  steamer-chair, 
with  gentle  giving  slopes  for  the  calves  and  broad 
containers,  polished  with  wear  and  tightly  woven 
like  armour,  for  the  arms;  a  sliding  basket  for 
the  head,  suggestive  of  a  guillotine's  grisly  com 
plement;  the  whole  adjusted  to  Stackhouse  and 
no  other. 

[67] 


LOT     &     COMPA  NY 

Humid  heat  in  the  harbour,  a  day  of  soft  low 
clouds.  The  man  who  pushed  Brooklyn  from 
him,  had  discarded  even  more  thoroughly  the 
clothing  of  temperate  climes.  The  vivid  black 
of  his  hairy  chest  was  uncovered,  and  there  was  a 
shining  bar  of  the  same,  just  above  the  selvage  of 
white  sock.  Bellair  thought  he  must  be  hairy  as 
a  collie  dog.  .  .  .  But  mainly  that  which 
weighted  and  creaked  the  chair  seemed  an  enor 
mous  puddle  of  faded  silks. 

The  bulky  brown  head  (which  arose  plumb  as 
a  wall  from  the  back  of  the  neck)  had  slightly 
bowed  as  Bellair  passed.  There  was  something 
ox-like  in  the  placidity  of  the  brown  eyes,  but  that 
was  only  their  first  beam,  as  it  were.  Much  that 
was  within  and  behind  the  eyes  of  Stackhouse, 
Bellair  thought  of  afterward.  Through  a  deep, 
queer  process,  it  came  to  him  that  even  the  answer 
for  his  coming  was  in  that  indescribable  back 
ground;  and  restless,  too,  in  the  pervading  brown, 
a  movement  of  sleek  animals  there.  The  Japanese 
woman  had  skuffed  forward  with  drink  for  her 
lord. 

Over  all  was  the  cloud  of  canvas  and  rigging, 
which  Bellair  had  studied  from  the  land,  and 
which  had  forced  him  to  a  fine  respect  for  the 
ruffian  sailor-men  who  could  move  directly  in  such 
an  arcanum,  and  command  its  service.  Bellair 
had  not  found  such  labour  on  shore,  having  lost 
his  respect  for  the  many  who  did  not  learn  even 

[68] 


THE    JADE:    n 

the  commonest  work.  .  .  .  There  was  a  deep-sea 
smell  about  her,  a  solution  of  tar  and  dried  fruit, 
paint  and  steaming  coppers  from  the  galley. 

The  very  age  of  the  Jade  was  a  charm  to  him. 
Only  her  spine  and  ribs  and  plates  were  of  steel — 
the  rest  a  priceless  woodwork  that  had  come  into 
its  real  beauty  under  the  endlessly  wearing  hands 
of  man.  There  seemed  a  grain  and  maturity  to 
the  inner  parts,  as  if  the  strain  and  roughing  of 
the  seas  had  brought  out  the  real  enduring  heart 
of  the  excellent  fabric.  The  rose-wood  side-board 
of  his  upper  berth,  for  instance,  placed  for  the  full 
light  from  the  port  to  fall  upon  it,  was  worth  the 
price  of  the  passage — sixteen  inches  wide,  a  full 
inch  and  one-half  thick,  worn  to  a  soft  lustre  as 
if  the  human  hands  had  hallowed  it,  and  giving 
back  to  the  touch  the  same  answer  from  the  years 
that  a  vine  brings  to  stone-work  and  the  bouquet 
to  wine.  .  .  .  The  Jade  had  known  good  care  and 
answered.  Floors,  even  of  the  cabins,  were  hol 
lowed  from  much  stoning;  the  hinges  held  and 
ferried  their  burdens  in  silence,  and  the  old  locks 
moved  with  soft  contented  clicks,  the  wards  run 
ning  in  new  oil. 

A  city  man  who  had  long  dreamed  of  a  country 
garden ;  or  indeed,  Bellair  was  a  city  man  who  had 
long  dreamed  of  a  full-rigged  ship  to  fulfil  in 
part  the  romance  of  his  soul.  The  Jade  had  a 
dear  inner  life  for  him,  satisfied  him  with  her 
lines,  her  breathing,  settling  and  repose.  A  fine 
[69] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 

hunger  began  to  animate  the  length  and  breadth 
of  the  man. 

There  was  a  half  hour  of  straight,  clear  think 
ing,  of  the  kind  that  plumbs  the  outlook  with  the 
in,  and  mainly  comes  unawares.  Bessie  Break, 
of  course,  appeared  and  passed,  in  all  the  hardness 
of  her  life  and  the  pity  of  it,  but  the  days  that 
had  elapsed  since  the  parting  had  not  changed  his 
unique  desire  to  help  her;  nor  did  he  lie  to  himself 
that  he  wanted  her,  too,  as  a  man  wants  a  woman. 
He  loved  her  in  a  way,  against  his  will.  Possibly 
the  kiss  had  fixed  that.  In  the  solution  of  the 
running  thoughts,  and  without  subtlety  of  min 
gling,  was  the  face  on  deck,  the  dark,  extraor 
dinary  face  of  Stackhouse. 

They  were  a  full  day  at  sea,  before  Bellair  was 
called  to  sit  down  before  the  great  cane  chair. 
There  was  a  warm  land  wind;  November  already 
forgotten.  The  Jade  had  gathered  up  her  skirts 
and  was  swinging  along  with  a  low  music  of  her 
own.  Stackhouse  waddled  back  to  his  chair  from 
the  land-rail,  a  remarkable  mass  of  crumpled  silks, 
the  canes  marked  in  the  general  effusion  of  damp 
ness  along  his  back  and  legs,  the  silks  caught  up 
behind  by  a  system  of  wrinkles  and  imprints,  and 
one  hitched  pantaloon  revealing  the  familiar  muff 
of  fur  above  the  selvage  of  his  fallen  sock.  Now 
Stackhouse  was  preparing  to  enter.  Bellair  was 
caught  in  the  tension.  The  process,  while  pro 
digious,  was  not  without  its  delicate  parts.  One 

[70] 


THE    JADE:    11 

hand  was  irrevocably  occupied  with  a  long- 
stemmed  China  pipe,  a  warm  creamy  vase,  already 
admired  by  Bellair.  Breath  came  in  puffs  and 
pantings  of  fragrant  tobacco,  but  there  were  gur 
glings  and  strange  stoppages  of  air  that  com 
plained  from  deeper  passages. 

Creaking  began  at  the  corners;  and  a  wallowing 
as  if  from  the  father  of  all  boars.  Now  the  centre 
of  the  chair  caught  the  strain  in  full  and  whipped 
forth  its  remonstrance.  One  after  another  the 
legs  gripped  the  deck,  each  with  a  whimper  of  its 
own ;  and  the  air  was  filled  with  sharp  singing  ten 
sion  which  infected  the  nerves  of  the  watcher. 
Suddenly  the  torso  seemed  to  let  go  of  itself;  and 
from  the  canes  of  the  huge  central  hollow  came  a 
scream  in  unison.  By  miracle  the  whole  found 
itself  once  more  and  the  breathing  of  Stackhouse 
subsided  to  a  whine. 

"We  are  entering  the  latitude  of  rum,"  said 
he.  "Whoever  you  are,  young  man,  drink  the 
drink  of  nature,  and  you  will  brosper." 

The  west  was  just  a  shore-line,  the  dusk  rising 
like  a  tide.  The  hand  of  the  owner  pressed  the 
silks  variously  about  his  chest,  and  at  last  located 
a  loose  match.  Nerves  were  sparsely  scattered  in 
these  thick,  heavy-fleshed  fingers.  He  had  to  stop 
all  talk  and  memory  to  direct  his  feeling.  The 
match  at  length  emerged  from  his  palm,  and  slith 
ered  over  the  fine  canes  of  the  arm.  It  was  damp. 
Stackhouse  rubbed  the  sulphur  delicately  in  the 

[71] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 

hair  at  his  temple  and  tried  again.  Fire  leaped  to 
the  tip,  and  poured  out  from  the  great  hand  which 
pressed  it  to  the  pipe  and  mothered  it  from  the 
wind.  From  the  gurgling  passages,  smoke  now 
poured  as  the  sweetness  in  Sampson's  riddle. 

Rum  had  come.  The  Japanese  woman  served 
them.  The  youth  of  her  face  chilled  Bellair ;  the 
littleness  of  her,  all  the  tints  and  delicacy  of  a 
miniature  in  her  whitened  face.  Bright-hued  silk, 
a  placid  smile,  the  skuffing  of  her  wooden  sandals 
and  the  clock-work  intricacy  of  the  coils  of  her 
black  hair — these  were  but  decorations  of  the 
tragedy  which  came  home  to  the  American  where 
he  was  still  tender.  .  .  .  But  why  should  he  burn 
tissue*?  She  seemed  happy.  He  knew  that  the 
Japanese  women  require  very  little  to  make  them 
happy;  but  that  little  was  denied  this  maiden.  An 
hour  a  day  to  giggle  with  her  girl-friends  behind 
a  lattice,  and  she  might  have  borne  twenty-three 
hours  of  hell  with  calmness  and  cheer,  not  coun 
terfeit  like  this. 

"You  have  no  true  drink  of  the  soil  in  Amer- 
iga,"  said  Stackhouse.  "You  do  not  make  beer 
nor  wine,  so  you  make  no  music.  The  only  drink 
and  the  only  music  that  come  from  the  States  of 
Ameriga,  are  from  the  nigger-folk  who  do  not  be 
long  there.  They  make  music  and  corn  whiskey. 
The  rest  is  boison  to  the  soul." 

The  voice  was  rich  and  mellow.  He  must  have 
known  Teutonic  beginnings,  or  enough  association 

[72] 


THE    JADE:    n 

for  the  mannerisms  to  get  into  his  blood.  Stack- 
house  was  not  even  without  that  softness  of  senti 
ment,  though  he  was  tender  only  for  men.  Except 
for  a  spellable  word  here  and  there,  his  accent 
was  inimitable.  He  talked  of  little  other  than 
death,  and  with  indescribable  care — as  if  he  had 
been  much  with  men  of  another  language  or  with 
men  of  slow  understanding.  ...  It  may  have 
been  the  drink,  or  the  sunset  over  distant  land; 
the  Spanish  Main  ahead,  or  the  dryness  and  pent- 
ness  of  the  city-heart  and  its  achievement  of  long- 
dreamed  desire  in  a  snug,  sweet  ship  under  the 
easy  strain  of  sails  with  wind  in  them;  in  any 
event  Bellair  was  drawn  with  exquisite  passion — 
drawn  southward  as  the  Jade  was  drawn  in  the 
soft,  irresistible  strength  of  nature. 

He  knew  that  this  would  pass,  that  he  could 
not  continue  to  sense  this  rapport  with  the  sea 
board,  but  he  loved  it  now,  breathed  deep,  and 
saw  Stackhouse  as  he  was  never  to  be  seen  again. 
There  was  enchantment  in  the  eyes  of  the  great 
wanderer,  and  a  certain  culture  of  its  kind  in  its 
stories.  Bellair  listened  and  in  the  gleam  of  the 
broad,  dark  eyes,  there  seemed  a  glimpse  of  burn 
ing  ships,  shadowy  caravans  on  moonlit  sands 
and  the  flash  of  arms  by  night;  low-lying  lights  of 
island  ports,  formless  rafts,  spuming  breakers, 
mourning  derelicts — just  glimpses,  but  of  all  the 
gloom  and  garishness  of  the  sea.  He  began  a 
monologue  that  night,  and  though  it  is  not  this 

[73] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 


story,  it  was  not  interrupted  except  by  meals  and 
sleeping,  for  many  days;  and  all  the  pauses  in 
that  story  were  the  dramatic  pauses  of  death: 

"...  I  have  travelled  more  than  most  travel 
lers  and  have  seen  more  than  is  good  for  one  man. 
In  New  York  I  saw  Brundage  of  Frisco,  who 
asked  me  if  I  remembered  Perry.  I  said  I  remem 
bered  very  well,  for  Perry  was  a  bartner  of  mine, 
before  young  Brundage  came  out  to  the  Islands. 
He  told  me  Perry  was  six  weeks  buried.  That  is 
the  way  now.  When  I  was  young,  my  com- 
banions  did  not  die  in  beds.  They  were  killed. 
Eight  months  ago,  I  saw  Emslie — waved  at  him 
going  up  the  river  to  Shanghai.  He  was  outward 
bound,  and  came  home  to  us  in  Adelaide  in  a 
sealed  box.  Old  Foster,  who  is  richer  than  I,  has 
married  a  little  Marie  in  Manila  and  may  die 
when  he  pleases  now.  The  South  Seas  still  run 
in  and  yonder  among  Island  shores,  but  who  buys 
wine  for  the  Japanese  girls  in  Dunedin,  since 
Norcross  was  conscripted  for  the  service  we  all 
shall  know"?  .  .  . 

"And  thus  you  come  to  the  Jade,  and  some 
time  you  will  here  them  dell  of  Stackhouse.  Who 
knows  but  you  may  dell  the  story — of  a  familiar 
face  turned  down  like  an  oft-filled  glass1?  And 
some  one  will  say,  'He  has  not  laughed  these  many 
years.'  They  used  to  say  in  the  Smttax  at  Hong 
Kong,  when  the  harbour  was  raving  and  the  seas 
were  trying  to  climb  the  mountain — they  used 
[74] 


THE    JADE:    n 

to  say  that  Stackhouse  was  laughing  somewhere 
off  the  China  coasts.  But  there  are  only  so  many 
laughs  in  a  man,  and  they  go  out  with  the  years. 
Most  of  those  who  said  that  thing  of  Stackhouse 
— yes,  most  of  them,  are  dead  as  glacial  drift." 

Such  was  the  quality  of  his  perorations, 
hunched  ox-like  just  aft  of  the  main-shrouds — 
the  Japanese  woman  coming  and  going  with  the 
ship's  bells,  bringing  drinks  day  and  night. 

"It  seared  my  coppers — that  drinking  in  the 
States  of  Ameriga.  It  will  not  subdue,"  said  he. 
"One  has  a  thirst  for  weeks  after  a  few  days  of 
drinking  in  Ameriga.  For  one  must  be  bolite." 

He  was  never  stimulated,  seldom  depressed,  but 
saturated  his  great  frame  twenty  hours  of  the 
twenty-four,  the  Japanese  woman  seeming  to  un 
derstand  with  few  or  no  words  the  whims  of  taste 
of  which  he  was  made.  Just  once  in  the  small 
hours,  Bellair  heard  her  voice.  The  cane-chair 
had  not  been  empty  long,  and  the  silence  of  soft 
rain  was  upon  the  deck.  Bellair  had  opened  a 
package  of  New  York  papers  purchased  on  the 
last  day  in  Savannah.  ...  It  was  just  one 
scream,  but  the  scream  of  one  not  frightened  by 
any  human  thing.  .  .  .  The  roll  of  papers 
dropped  down  behind  the  bunk.  Anyway,  Bellair 
could  not  have  read  after  that.  Early  in  the 
morning  after  hours  of  torture  of  dreams,  he  was 
awakened  as  usual  by  the  sluicing  of  the  monster. 
Two  Lascars  who  travelled  with  Stackhouse  ap- 
[75] 


LOT      &      COMPANY 

parently  for  no  other  purpose,  poured  pails  of 
salt  water  upon  him  in  the  early  hour  when  the 
decks  were  washed;  and  often  at  midday  as  they 
neared  the  Line.  It  was  given  to  Bellair  more 
than  once,  as  the  voyage  lengthened,  to  witness 
this  hippodrome. 


Her  face  was  continually  turned  away.  Bel- 
lair  wondered  as  days  passed  if  he  should 
ever  see  her  face  to  face — the  silent,  far-looking 
young  woman  with  a  nursing  baby  in  her  arms. 
On  deck  she  stood  at  the  rail,  eyes  lost  oversea. 
Her  contemplation  appeared  to  have  nothing  to 
do  with  Europe  or  America,  but  set  to  the  wind 
wherever  it  came  from,  as  the  strong  are  always 
turned  up-stream.  Sometimes  she  wore  a  little 
blue  jacket,  curiously  reminding  Bellair  of  school 
days,  and  though  she  was  not  far  from  that  in 
years,  she  seemed  to  have  passed  far  into  the 
world.  The  child  cried  rarely. 

There  was  a  composure  about  the  mother,  but 
he  did  not  know  if  it  were  stolidity  or  poise.  Cer 
tainly  she  had  known  poverty,  but  health  was 
in  her  skin,  and  there  was  something  in  that  white 
profile,  that  the  sun  had  touched  with  olive  rather 
than  tan,  that  stopped  his  look.  The  perfection 
of  it  dismayed  Bellair.  He  loved  beauty,  but  did 
not  trust  it,  did  not  trust  himself  with  it.  "  The 
presence  of  a  beautiful  face  stimulated  him  as  no 

[76] 


THE    JADE:    11 

wine  could  do,  but  it  also  started  him  to  idealising 
that  which  belonged  to  it,  and  this  process  had 
heretofore  brought  disappointment.  Bellair  did 
not  want  this  touch  of  magnetism  now.  Beauty 
was  plentiful.  He  had  seen  the  profiles  of  Italian 
girls  in  New  York,  that  the  Greeks  would  have 
worshipped,  and  which  the  early  worship  of  the 
Greeks  was  doubtless  responsible  for — beauty 
with  little  beside  but  giggle  and  sham.  He  dis 
liked  the  thing  in  a  man's  breast  that  answers  so 
instantly  to  the  line  and  colour  of  a  woman's  face; 
objected  to  it  primarily,  because  it  was  one  of  the 
first  and  most  obvious  tricks  of  nature  for  the  re 
plenishment  of  species  in  man  and  below.  Bellair 
fancied  to  answer  the  captivation,  if  any  at  all,  of 
a  deeper  wonder  in  woman  than  the  contour  of  her 
countenance. 

He  was  aware  that  many  a  woman  has  a  beau 
tiful  profile,  whose  direct  look  is  a  disturbing  re 
consideration.  This  kept  his  eyes  down,  when 
she  was  opposite  in  the  dining  cabin.  We  are 
strangely  trained  at  table;  at  no  time  so  merciful. 
The  human  dining  countenance  must  be  lovely, 
indeed,  not  to  break  the  laws  of  beauty.  Only 
outright  lovers  dare,  and  they  are  bewildered  by 
each  other,  and  see  not.  So  he  did  not  know  the 
colour  of  her  eyes. 

She  nursed  her  baby  often  on  deck,  sitting  bare 
headed  in  the  wind  and  sun,  sometimes  singing  to 
it.  The  singing  was  all  her  own;  Bellair  wished 

[77] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 


she  wouldn't.  Her  melodies  were  foreign,  and 
sometimes  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  they  were  just  a 
touch  off  the  key.  Her  low  dissonances,  he  de 
scribed  vaguely  as  Russian,  but  retained  the  sus 
picion  that  she  was  tonally  imperfect  of  hearing. 

The  singing  and  the  picture  of  her  was  just  as 
far  as  possible  from  Bessie  Break,  but  she  made 
Bellair  think.  In  all  likelihood  this  was  the  gen 
eral  objection.  His  eyes  smarted  in  the  dusks, 
as  he  thought  of  the  other  singer  (as  solitary  in 
New  York  as  this  woman  here),  who  was  deter 
mined  not  to  be  afraid  of  the  cars  or  the  bears  or 
the  wolves.  Every  day  Bessie's  first  words  re 
turned  to  him : 

"A  little  Rhine  wine — it's  very  good  here." 

And  always  the  devastation  of  that  sentence 
was  great.  It  was  a  street-woman's  inside 
familiarity,  Brandt's  being  one  of  her  rounds;  as 
she  might  speak  of  the  beer  at  Holbeck's  or  the 
chops  at  Sharpens.  Yet  Bessie  was  not  greedy, 
and  had  no  taste  for  wine.  It  was  the  glibness, 
the  town  mannerism,  and  the  low,  easy  level  which 
her  acceptance  of  the  common  saying  revealed; 
the  life  which  she  was  willing  to  make  her  own, 
at  least  exteriorly.  But  after  all,  in  the  better 
moments,  it  seemed  very  silly  to  deny  a  great  soul 
to  the  girl  who  could  sing  as  Bessie  sang.  Some 
day  she  would  feel  her  soul.  .  .  . 

The  preacher,  third  passenger  on  board  the 
Jade,  reported  that  the  Faraway  woman  was  re- 

[78] 


THE    JADE:    11 

turning  to  her  home  in  New  Zealand.  Fleury 
didn't  know  if  her  baby  was  boy  or  girl,  but 
judged  that  it  was  very  healthy,  since  it  cried  so 
little. 

Fleury  wasn't  promising  to  Bellair's  eyes. 
First  of  all  it  was  the  cloth;  and  then  during  the 
first  three  weeks  at  sea,  Bellair  spent  innumerable 
hours  in  the  periphery  of  the  great  cane-chair. 
He  did  not  resist  his  prejudice.  "A  missionary 
going  out  with  the  usual  effrontery,"  he  decided. 
The  preacher's  face  appeared  placid  and  boyish. 
.  .  .  Fleury,  however,  continued  to  observe  cheer 
ful  good-mornings,  to  praise  the  fine  weather,  and 
to  offer  opportunities  for  better  acquaintance — all 
without  being  obtrusive  in  the  least.  Hayti  and 
Santo  Domingo — names  once  remote  and  roman 
tic  to  the  city  man's  mind — were  now  vanished 
shores,  and  as  yet  the  voyage  was  but  well  begun. 
.  .  .  The  three  passengers  were  served  together  in 
the  cabin,  except  in  cases  when  the  Stackhouse 
narrative  happened  to  be  running  particularly 
well.  Bellair  would  then  be  called  to  dine  with 
the  owner. .  Captain  McArliss  would  appear  at 
this  mess  and  disappear — the  courses  being 
brought  to  him  one  after  another  in  a  certain  rapid 
form.  The  Captain  seemed  so  conscious,  that  Bel 
lair  never  quite  dared  to  observe  what  happened 
to  the  food,  but  he  was  certain  that  McArliss  did 
not  bolt.  His  suspicion  was  that  he  tasted  or 
sipped  as  the  case  might  be,  merely  spoiling  the 

[79] 


LOT      &      COMPANY 


offering.  He  was  gone  before  Stackhouse  was 
really  started. 

It  was  less  what  the  giant  ate,  than  the  exces 
sive  formality  and  importance  of  his  table  sessions 
that  prevailed  upon  the  American.  Dinner  was 
the  chief  doing  of  the  day.  Bellair  had  never 
complained,  even  in  thought,  of  the  food  served 
to  him  in  the  usual  mess,  but  with  Stackhouse 
everything  was  extra  fine  from  the  Chinese  stand 
point — all  delicacies  and  turns  of  the  art,  all 
choice  cuttings  and  garnishments,  a  most  careful 
consideration  of  wines — so  that  from  the  first 
audible  delectation  of  the  contents  of  the  silver 
tureen,  to  the  choice  of  a  cigar  (invariably  after 
a  few  deep  inhalations  from  a  cigarette  "made  in 
Acca  by  the  brisoners"),  there  was  formality  and 
deep  responsibility  upon  the  ship;  and  a  freedom 
afterward  through  the  galleys  that  was  pleasant 
to  regard. 

"There  are  many  things  in  Belgium,"  said  the 
master.  "There  are  wines  and  gookeries  there; 
also  in  Poland  there  are  gooks.  In  England  there 
are  gooks,  but  not  in  Ameriga — only  think-they- 
are-gooks.  However,  there  are  gooks  in  China.  I 
have  one,  as  you  shall  see." 

Something  like  this  at  each  mighty  dining — 
and  the  promise  had  to  do  with  the  next  course 
which  Stackhouse  invariably  knew  and  served  as 
a  surprise  for  his  guest,  for  he  ordered  his  dinner 
with  his  coffee  and  fish  in  the  morning.  Bellair 

[80] 


THE    JADE:    n 

had  often  seen  the  Chinese  emerge  from  the  gal 
ley,  as  they  came  up  from  the  dining  saloon,  little 
sparse  patches  of  hair  here  and  there  on  his  fat 
face  like  willow  clumps  on  the  shore,  these  un 
touched  by  the  razor,  though  his  forehead  was 
perfectly  shaven  to  the  queue  circlet.  This  was 
Gookery  John  taking  his  breath  after  the  moil  and 
heat  of  the  day. 

Stackhouse  would  declare  that  he  dined  just 
once  a  day,  meaning  this  exactly.  He  breakfasted 
on  a  plate  of  fried  fish  with  many  pourings  of 
mellow,  golden  and  august  German  coffee,  eating 
the  hot  fishes  in  his  hands  like  crackers — a  very 
warm  and  shiny  hand  when  it  was  done — crisp 
brown  fishes  stripped  somehow  in  his  beard,  the 
bones  tossed  overside.  He  liked  full  day  with 
this  meal.  The  plates  were  brought  hot  and  cov 
ered  to  the  great  cane  chair,  until  he  called  for 
them  to  cease.  For  his  supper  he  desired  outer 
darkness  (English  ale  and  apples,  black  bread 
from  Rome  that  comes  sewn  in  painted  canvas 
like  hams  for  the  shipping,  butter  from  Belgium 
packed  with  the  care  of  costly  cheeses,  of  which 
he  was  connoisseur;  sauces  of  India,  a  cold  chicken, 
perhaps,  or  terrapin,  and  an  hour  or  two  of  nuts). 
The  Japanese  woman  appeared  at  none  of  these 
services. 

It  was  the  dinners,  however,  which  bewildered 
Bellair  most.  He  had  not  the  heart  utterly  to 
condemn  them,  since  the  Jade  and  the  noble  sea- 

[81] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 

air,  sometimes  winy  and  sometimes  of  sterile 
purity,  kept  him  in  that  fine  state  of  apprecia 
tion,  which  if  he  had  ever  known  as  a  boy  was 
utterly  forgotten.  He  had  initiation  in  curries 
and  roasts,  piquant  relishes  of  seed  and  fish  and 
flower,  chowders,  broiled  fish  and  baked — until 
he  felt  the  seas  and  continents  serving  their  best, 
and  learned  about  each  in  the  characteristic  tell 
ing  of  the  man  who  lived  for  them.  For  instance 
when  chicken  was  brought : 

"These  are  the  birds  for  the  Chinese  to  play 
with — yes,  you  would  think  me  joking1?  It  is  not 
so.  The  little  chicken-birds  are  kept  for  pets. 
They  are  not  frightened  to  death.  You  do  not 
know,  berhaps,  that  fear  and  anger  boisons  the 
little  birds'?  They  are  kept  happy  and  killed 
quick — before  they  know.  Many  mornings  they 
are  fed  from  the  hand  and  played  with,  until  they 
love  John  of  the  gookeries — and  one  morning — 
so,  like  that — heads  off — and  no  boison  from  the 
fear  of  death  in  our  flavours.  Many  things  you  do 
not  know — yes*?" 

"Yes,"  Bellair  said. 

Stackhouse  loved  his  little  facts  like  these,  all 
matters  of  preparation  of  fish  and  flesh  and  fowl ; 
the  intricate  processes  of  fattening,  curing,  soften 
ing,  corking  and  all  the  science  of  the  stores.  .  .  . 
"There  was  a  certain  goose  which  I  found  in 
Hakodate — not  from  the  Japanese,  but  from  a 
Chino  there — — •"  .  .  .  "And  once  upon  a  time 

[82] 


THE    JADE:    11 

in  Mindanao,  they  baked  a  fish  for  me  with  heated 
stones  in  the  ground.  Wrapped  in  leaves,  it  was, 
and  covered  first  in  clay.  You  should  see  the 
scales  and  skin  come  off  with  the  clay — and  the 
inner  barts  a  little  ball,  when  it  was  finished.  And 
the  dining  of  that  evening.  Ah,  the  sharb  eyes  of 
the  little  nigger  girls — you  would  believe1?"  .  .  . 
Such  were  the  stories  in  the  long  feeding — but 
the  stories  on  deck  were  the  stories  of  the  death 
of  men. 

In  the  usual  mess  the  chat  was  perfunctory  on 
Bellair's  part,  since  he  granted  that  the  preacher 
and  the  Faraway  woman  (he  called  her  so  in  his 
thoughts  from  her  distant-searching  on  deck) 
were  so  well  adjusted  to  each  other.  He  granted 
this,  and  much  beside  concerning  the  two,  from 
pure  fancy.  Never  once  had  they  disregarded 
him,  or  engaged  in  conversation  that  would  leave 
him  dangling,  though  many  times  his  own 
thoughts  were  apart.  The  Jade  had  been  three 
weeks  out  of  Savannah,  in  the  southern  Caribbean, 
a  superb  mid-afternoon,  when  Bellair,  turning  at 
the  rail,  found  Fleury  at  his  side.  He  had  just 
been  wondering  if  he  had  better  go  below  and 
read  awhile  by  the  open  port,  or  start  the  mono 
logue  of  Stackhouse  for  the  rest  of  the  day.  The 
latter  was  enjoyable  enough,  but  Bellair  disliked 
to  drink  anything  so  early.  .  .  .  "One  must  be 
bolite." 

It  happened  right  for  the  first  conversation  with 

[83] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 

Fleury.  He  had  never  known  a  preacher  whose 
talk  touched  the  core  of  things.  Preachers  had 
always  shown  a  softness  of  training  on  the  actuali 
ties,  and  left  Bellair  sceptical  of  the  rest.  A 
minister  had  once  told  him:  "What  force  for 
good  we  get  to  be  in  mid-life,  is  in  spite  of  our 
ecclesiastical  training,  not  because  of  it."  Bellair 
had  often  thought  of  that. 

Yet,  he  had  given  much  secret  thought  to  reli 
gious  things,  not  counting  himself  a  specialist, 
however,  seldom  opening  the  subject.  Certainly 
at  Lot  &  Company's,  no  one  had  marked  this  pro 
clivity.  He  had  the  idea  that  a  man  must  come 
up  through  men,  and  through  the  real  problems 
of  men,  if  he  would  become  a  moving  force  for 
good  in  the  world;  that  no  training  apart  among 
texts  and  tracts  and  tenets  would  get  him  power. 
Very  clearly  he  saw  that  a  man  must  go  apart  to 
fix  his  ideals,  but  that  he  should  seek  his  wilder 
ness  after  learning  the  world,  not  after  prolonged 
second-hand  contacts  with  books. 

"The  big  job  ahead  is  for  some  one  who  can 
show  the  human  family  that  it's  all  of  a  piece, 
and  that  we're  all  out  after  the  same  thing,"  he 
remarked. 

"A  Unifier,"  Fleury  suggested. 

"Yes.  Just  so  long  as  we  have  to  hate  one  cult 
or  sect,  because  we  love  another,  we're  lost  to  the 
whole  beauty  of  the  scheme " 

"I  quite  agree  with  you,"  said  the  preacher. 
[84] 


THE    JADE:    11 

"What  is  your  church1?"  Bellair  asked. 

"Well,  the  fact  is,  I  haven't  one,"  Fleury  said 
with  a  smile.  "Convictions  somewhat  similar  to 
that  which  you  have  expressed  have  twice  cost  me 
my  church.  As  the  church  puts  it,  I  am  a  failure 
and  not  to  be  trusted  with  regular  work " 

"You  are  going  out  in  the  mission-service1?" 

Bellair  was  now  ashamed,  because  he  had  held 
the  other  a  bit  cheaply.  The  boyish  face  looked 
suddenly  different  to  him,  as  Fleury  said: 

"No — that  is,  I  have  ceased  to  expound  theol 
ogy.  I  have  come  out  to  make  the  thought  and 
the  act  one." 

Bellair  was  taking  on  a  new  conception.  His 
question  was  a  trifle  automatic: 

"Did  you  talk  out  in  meeting1?" 

"Yes.  There  were  a  thousand  years  in  the  con 
gregation.  You  know  what  I  mean — only  a  few 
of  our  generation  in  method  of  mind." 

"A  sort  of  Seventeenth  century  average*?"  Bel 
lair  suggested. 

"Don't  misunderstand  me.  I  was  wrong,  too," 
Fleury  declared.  "Wrong,  in  the  young  man's 
way  of  thinking  himself  right.  You  know  we're 
just  as  baneful  when  we  are  getting  into  a  new 
world  of  thought  as  when  we  are  not  yet  out  of 
the  old.  It's  only  after  we  have  settled  down  and 
got  accustomed  to  the  place,  that  we're  reasonable. 
A  man  should  be  big  enough  to  talk  to  all  men, 
and  appear  everlastingly  true  to  the  least  and  the 

[85] 


LOT      &      COMPANY 


greatest.  Truth  is  big  enough  for  that.  I  had 
only  a  different  trail  from  theirs,  and  wanted  them 
all  to  come  to  mine,  forgetting  that  the  trails  are 
only  far  apart  at  the  bottom  of  the  mountain — 
that  they  all  converge  at  the  top " 

"You  had  to  be  honest  with  yourself,"  Bellair 
said  thoughtfully. 

"That's  just  what  I  thought,  but  maybe  there 
was  a  lie  in  that,"  Fleury  answered.  "It's  not  so 
easy  to  be  honest  with  one's  self  and  keep  on  using 
words  for  a  living.  The  best  way  is  to  act " 

"You've  said  something,  Mr.  Fleury." 

And  in  his  new  respect  for  the  other,  Bellair 
wanted  to  make  his  view  clearer.  "It's  the  old 
soil  and  seed  story  again,"  he  said.  "It  isn't 
enough  to  get  truth  down  to  superb  simplicity. 
The  minds  of  men  must  be  open  beside.  My 
objection  to  the  Church  is  that  it  has  separated 
religion  from  work  and  the  week-day — tried  to 
balance  one  day  of  sanctimoniousness  against  six 
days  of  mammon — taught  men  that  heaven  is  to 
be  reached  in  a  high  spiritual  effusion  because  One 
has  died  for  us.  The  fact  is  we've  got  to  help 
ourselves  to  heaven.  .  .  .  Excuse  me  for  being  so 
communicative,"  he  added,  "but  what  you  said 
about  putting  down  talk  and  taking  up  action 
interested  me  at  once.  I've  a  suspicion  you  won't 
be  long  in  finding  something  to  do •" 

"I'm  hoping  just  that." 

Fleury  smiled  at  him.  The  face  was  large 
[86] 


THE    JADE:    n 

and  mild,  not  a  fighter's  face  nor  a  coward's 
either.  .  .  .  The  young  woman  appeared  with 
the  child.  She  seemed  to  hold  it  to  the  sun,  and 
she  walked  with  the  beauty  of  a  woman  bringing 
a  pitcher  to  the  fountain.  Bellair  realised  the 
heat  of  the  day.  Her  face  had  an  intense  clear 
ness,  but  was  partly  turned  away.  There  was  a 
delicacy  about  it  that  he  had  not  known  before. 
He  recalled  that  she  had  just  bowed  to  them.  .  .  . 
They  were  passing  an  island  shore — a  line  of 
sun-dazzle  that  stung  the  eyes,  empty  green  hills 
and  a  fierce  white  sky.  Bellair  thought  of  the 
woman  and  the  island  as  one  ...  he,  the  third, 
coming  home,  mooring  his  boat,  hastening  up  the 
trail  at  evening.  .  .  .  Her  frail  back,  bending  a 
little  to  the  right,  made  him  think  of  a  dancer 
he  had  once  seen.  He  saw  the  child's  bare  limbs 
in  the  sun.  .  .  .  His  steps  were  quickened  up  that 
Island  trail  again.  .  .  .  The  Jade  seemed  faint 
ing  in  the  cushions  of  hot  wind.  Just  then  a  voice 
said: 

"She's  quite  the  most  remarkable  woman.    She 
isn't  a  talker." 

He  had  forgotten  Fleury. 
"Where  is  she  going1?" 
"Auckland.    She  came  from  there." 

"Queer,  she  would  go  home  this  way " 

"Her  whole  fortune  is  in  her  arms,"  Fleury 
whispered. 

The  ship's  bell   struck  twice;  the   cane-chair 


LOT     &     COMPANY 

creaked;  they  turned  by  habit  to  note  the  appear 
ance  of  the  Japanese  woman  with  drink.  She  did 
not  fail.  Stackhouse  came  to  with  a  prolonged 
snore,  a  sound  unlike  a  pair  of  pit-terriers  at  work. 

"A  considerable  brute,"  muttered  the  preacher. 

"He  has  been  much  of  a  man  in  his  way,"  said 
Bellair. 

"He  talks  much — that  is  weakness." 

Their  eyes  met.  Bellair  began  to  understand 
how  deeply  the  other's  experience  had  bitten  him. 

"He's  afraid  of  death,"  Fleury  added. 

"I  wonder,"  Bellair  mused.  "He  talks  always 
of  death.  He's  been  in  at  the  deaths  of  many 
men.  He'll  die  hard  himself — if  he  doesn't  tame 
down." 

Fleury  added:  "When  a  man  is  so  much  an 
animal,  all  his  consciousness  is  in  that.  They 
see  death  as  the  end — that's  why  they  are 
afraid " 

"I  wonder  if  he  is  a  coward?"  Bellair  ques 
tioned. 

"The  stuff  animals  are  made  of  cannot  last," 
the  preacher  concluded. 

Bellair  pondered  as  he  sat  with  Stackhouse 
that  night.  Brandy  was  the  choice  of  the  evening. 
The  Japanese  woman  brought  it  from  the  deeps 
of  the  hold,  where  it  had  come  in  stone  from 
Bruges.  Bellair  joined  him  a  second  and  a  third 
time  for  the  instant  stinging  zest  of  the  fire.  .  .  . 
Fleury  and  the  woman  had  long  stood  together  aft 

[88] 


THE    JADE:    11 

by  the  clicking  log.  The  moon  came  late  and 
bulbous.  Stackhouse  talked  of  his  fortune,  and) 
the  chaos  in  many  island  affairs  his  death  would 
cause.  .  .  .  Once  he  had  loved  a  chap  named 
Belding,  and  would  have  left  him  great  riches, 
but  Belding  was  dead.  .  .  . 


They  had  crossed  the  Line.  The  night  was 
windless  hot — almost  suffocating  below.  Bel- 
lair  gave  it  up,  a  little  after  midnight,  and 
went  on  deck,  moving  forward  out  of  the  smell  of 
paint,  for  the  heat  had  bubbled  the  lead  on  the 
cabin  planking.  A  few  first  magnitude  stars 
glinted  in  the  fumy  sky.  The  anchor  chains  and 
the  big  hook  itself  made  a  radiator  not  to  be 
endured — better  the  smell  of  paint  than  that. 
Captain  McArliss  moved  past  with  a  cigar  and 
suggested  jerkily  that  a  hammock  was  swung  aft 
by  the  binnacle.  Bellair  thanked  him  and  went 
there,  but  did  not  lie  down.  Close  to  the  rail  he 
could  smell  the  deep  and  it  refreshed  him.  Left 
alone  in  this  hard-won  ease,  his  thoughts  turned 
back  to  New  York. 

...  It  was  like  a  ghost  at  the  companion- 
way — a  faint  grey  luminosity.  She  came  toward 
him  without  a  sound,  the  child  in  her  arms.  Some 
thing  of  the  strangeness  prevented  him  speaking 
until  she  was  near,  and  then  he  spoke  softly  in 
fear  lest  she  be  frightened : 
[89] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 

"It  is  I,  Bellair " 

If  she  were  startled,  she  did  not  let  him  know. 
He  offered  the  deckchair  he  had  occupied,  or  the 
hammock,  as  she  chose. 

"I  would  not  have  disturbed  you,"  she  said. 

"I  think  it  is  cooler  close  to  the  rail,"  he  sug 
gested.  "The  little  one  is  very  brave.  Is  he 
awake?" 

"Yes " 

"I  don't  know  why  I  said  che,' — the  fact  is,  I 
didn't  know,"  he  laughed. 

"You  were  right,"  she  answered,  sitting  down. 
"He  seems  to  have  so  much  to  study  and  con 
template.  It  passes  the  time  for  him,  and  then  he 
is  very  well  and  he  likes  the  sea." 

"He  has  been  to  sea  before*?" 

"Yes,  we  came  up  from  Auckland  on  a  steamer 
when  he  was  ver-ee  little,  but  he  liked  it,  and  did 
so  well.  It  was  harder  for  him  in  New  York, 
although  he  didn't  complain " 

Bellair  laughed. 

"Now  that  I  have  taken  your  seat — won't  you 
get  another*?"  she  asked.  "Or  the  hammock'?" 

"If  you  don't  mind  I  should  be  very  glad  to 
,get  another  chair " 

Bellair  found  himself  hurrying  to  the  waist,  for 
there  was  always  a  lesser  seat  by  the  great  cane 
throne.  .  .  .  He  could  not  see  her  face  in  that 
utter  night,  but  sometimes  when  he  had  forgotten 
for  a  moment,  there  seemed  the  faintest  grey  haze 

[90] 


THE    JADE:    11 

about  her  face  and  shoulders,  but  never  when  he 
looked  sharply;  and  the  curve  of  her  back  as  her 
body  fitted  to  the  child  in  her  lap,  hushed  him 
queerly  within,  so  that  he  listened  to  his  own 
commonplace  words,  as  one  would  hear  the  re 
marks  of  another. 

"Do  you  suppose  he  would  come  to  me*?"  the 
man  asked. 

"I  think  he  would  be  very  glad,"  she  said. 

Bellair  took  no  risk,  but  placed  his  hand  softly 
between  the  little  ones.  Something  went  out  of 
him,  leaving  nothing  but  a  queer,  joyous  vibration 
that  held  life  together,  with  ample  to  spare  to 
laugh  with.  The  larger  part  of  his  identity 
seemed  to  be  infused  with  the  night,  however.  On 
one  side  of  his  hand,  there  was  a  warm,  light 
seizure,  rendering  powerless  his  own  little  finger, 
and  on  the  other  side,  his  thumb  was  taken.  He 
lifted  his  hand  a  little  and  the  captor's  came  with 
it — no  waste  of  energy  whatsoever,  but  with  easy 
confidence  of  having  enough  and  to  spare.  The 
man  couldn't  breathe  without  laughing,  but  he 
was  very  quiet  about  it  as  the  moment  demanded, 
and  his  delight  was  nowise  to  be  measured  in 
recent  history. 

He  was  bending  forward  close  to  the  woman's 
breast.  Suddenly  he  remembered  her — as  if  find 
ing  himself  in  a  sanctuary.  .  .  .  The  great  pic 
tures  of  the  world  had  this  motif,  but  the  Third 
of  the  trinity  was  always  invisible.  Yet  he  had 

[91] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 

entered  in  this  darkness,  come  right  into  the  fra 
grance  and  the  love-magnetism  of  it  ...  held 
there  in  two  ineffable  pressures. 

His  low  laughter  ceased.  He  was  full  of  won 
der  now,  but  could  not  stay.  Out  of  the  bewilder 
ment  of  emotions  he  had  the  one  sense — that  he 
was  not  the  third  to  this  mystery — that  the  third 
must  be  invisible,  as  in  the  great  madonnas  of 
paint.  He  betrayed  the  tiny  grips  with  a  twist, 
caught  the  child  in  his  two  hands  and  lifted  him 
from  the  mother,  sitting  back  in  his  own  chair. 
.  .  .  But  the  fragrance  lingered  about  him  and 
that  wonderful  homing  vibration.  He  knew  some 
thing  of  the  nature  of  it  now.  It  was  peace. 

4 

The  little  blue  jacket  had  come  forth  again 
as  they  ran  down  into  the  cold.  .  .  .  There 
was  wild  weather  around  the  Horn,  and  Stack- 
house  was  a  sick  monster  from  confinement.  Bel- 
lair,  who  could  drink  a  little  for  company  through 
the  glorious  nights  on  deck,  bolted  from  the  cabin 
performance,  and  Captain  McArliss  was  called 
to  listen,  and  fell,  as  Stackhouse  knew  he  would, 
for  he  had  said  to  Bellair  during  one  of  their  last 
talks : 

"Lest  there  appear  among  men  a  perfect  sailor, 
they  handicapped  my  McArliss — packed  his  inner 
barts  in  unslaked  lime.  Never  will  you  see  a 
thirst  fought  as  he  fights  it.  First  he  will  drink 

[92] 


THE    JADE:    n 

with  me,  and  you  will  hear  him  laugh;  then  he 
will  drink  alone,  and  there  will  be  silence  until  he 
begins  to  scream.  Already  his  eyes  are  tortured 
and  his  lips  white.  Bresently  he  will  come  and 
sit  with  me " 

Bellair  hated  this;  in  fact  the  big  master  had 
begun  to  wear  deeply.  "I  should  think  you  would 
want  to  keep  him  on  his  feet — for  the  passage 
around  the  Horn." 

"My  McArliss  is  always  a  sailor,"  said  Stack- 
house,  rocking  his  head. 

Bellair  could  credit  that.  McArliss  interested 
him — an  abrupt,  nervous  man,  who  covered  the 
eager  warmth  of  his  friendliness  in  frosted  man 
nerisms  and  sentences  clipped  at  each  end.  He 
was  afraid  of  himself  except  in  his  work,  afraid 
of  his  opinions,  though  a  great  reader  of  the  queer 
out  of  the  way  good  things.  Bellair  found  Wool- 
man's  Life  in  his  little  library,  with  narratives  of 
the  ocean,  tales  of  Blackbirders  and  famous  India- 
men,  Lytton's  "Strange  Story"  and  "Zanoni,"  also 
Hartmann's  "Magic,  Black  and  White."  The 
latter  he  read,  and  found  it  not  at  all  what  he 
expected,  but  a  book  that  would  go  with  him  as 
far  as  he  cared  at  any  angle,  and  then  lose  him. 
He  was  quite  astonished.  It  was  a  long  book,  too 
— the  kind  you  vow  you  will  begin  again,  from 
time  to  time  through  the  last  half.  He  wanted  to 
talk  to  McArliss  about  it,  but  the  Captain  was 
embarrassed. 

[93] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 


"Crazy,  eh?"  he  would  say  with  a  queer,  dry 
laugh. 

"I've  stopped  saying  that  about  a  book — be 
cause  I  don't  get  it  all,"  Bellair  remarked.  "This 
man  is  right  as  far  as  I  can  go  with  him." 

"You  give  him  the  benefit — eh1?  That's  pretty 
good." 

"And  you  like  it?" 

"Ha — it  passes  the  time.  Good  God — we  have 
to  pass  the  time !" 

He  spoke  jerkily,  always  in  this  fashion,  and 
the  days  brought  no  ease  to  the  tension.  Mc- 
Arliss  patted  his  pockets,  swore  hastily  over  little 
things,  looked  snappily  here  and  there.  Bellair 
would  have  guessed,  without  the  word  from  Stack- 
house.  The  Captain  was  fighting  hard.  There 
seemed  nothing  to  be  done;  the  man  had  grown  a 
spiked  hedge  around  an  innocent  shyness;  all  that 
was  real  about  him  he  kept  shamefacedly  to  him 
self.  Still  Bellair  believed  more  and  more  in  his 
fine  quality.  McArliss  made  a  picture  for  him 
of  one  who  has  come  up  through  steam  and  re 
turned  to  canvas  bringing  a  finer  appreciation  to 
the  beauty  and  possibilities  of  natural  seaman 
ship;  as  a  man  returns  to  the  land,  after  many 
wearing  years  of  city  life,  with  a  different  and 
deeper  instinct  of  the  nature  of  the  soil. 

"She's  a  slashing  sailer,"  he  would  say  critic 
ally,  as  he  crowded  the  Jade.  "She  balances  to 
a  hair — eh?  Good  old  girl — they  don't  breed  her 
kind  any  more." 


THE    JADE:    u 

It  was  he  who  balanced  her  to  every  wind, 
meeting  all  weathers  with  different  cuts  of  cloth. 
Having  only  a  distant  familiarity  with  his  fellow- 
officers  and  not  even  a  speaking  acquaintance  with 
the  crew,  McArliss  made  her  sing  her  racing  song 
night  and  day  down  into  the  lower  latitudes,  until 
one  played  with  the  suspicion  that  he  managed 
the  weather,  too, — with  that  same  nervous,  effec 
tive  energy.  It  was  all  tremendously  satisfying 
to  Bellair.  He  had  reacted  on  the  last  reaction, 
and  was  healed  throughout.  Worldliness  was  lost 
from  his  mental  pictures  of  Bessie;  daily  she  be 
came  more  as  he  wanted  her  to  be.  Lot  &  Com 
pany  had  lost  its  upstanding  and  formidable  black 
— was  far-off  now  and  dimly  pitiable.  He  had 
not  cared  what  was  ahead;  it  had  been  the  Jade 
and  the  voyage  that  had  called  him,  but  now  the 
Islands  and  all  that  watery  universe  of  the  South 
ern  Pacific  were  in  prospect,  to  explore  and  make 
his  own.  Perhaps  men  were  younger  there ;  trade 
less  old  and  ramified;  perhaps  they  would  bring 
him  the  new  magic  of  life — so  that  he  could  live 
with  zest  and  be  himself.  .  .  .  Always  at  this 
part  of  the  dream  he  would  think  of  Bessie  again. 
She  was  the  cord  not  yet  detached.  Sooner  or 
later,  he  must  go  back  to  her.  At  times  he  thought 
that  he  could  not  bear  to  remain  very  long;  some 
times  even  watching  this  endless  passage  of  days 
with  strange  concern.  .  .  .  But  there  was  a  short 
cut  home — straight  up  the  Pacific  to  San  Fran 
cisco — and  four  days  across.  .  .  . 

[95] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 

Fleury  and  the  Faraway  woman  had  their  in 
creasingly  fine  part  in  his  life.  The  preacher  was 
always  finding  some  new  star,  or  bidding  adieu 
to  some  northern  constellation. 

They  had  chosen  the  passage  through  the  Straits 
because  of  the  settled  weather.  At  least,  they 
called  it  fair-going — wild  and  rugged  though  it 
was,  with  huge  masses  of  torn  cloud,  black  or 
grey-black,  hurtling  past,  often  as  low  as  the 
masthead,  and  all  life  managed  at  sick  angles. 
The  Jade  bowed  often  and  met  the  screaming 
blasts  with  her  poles  strangely  bare,  except,  per 
haps,  for  a  few  feet  of  extra-heavy  canvas  strain 
ing  at  the  mizzen  weather-rig.  .  .  .  Stackhouse 
nudged  him  one  night  and  a  laugh  gurgled  up 
from  his  chest  as  he  pointed  forward  where  Me- 
Arliss  stood  in  the  waist  lighting  a  cigarette. 

"He  will  not  sleep  to-night.  He  will  come  to 
me — and  you  will  never  hear  such  talk  as  from 
this  silent  man.  He  will  look  for  gompany  to 
night.  One  must  be  oolite.* 

It  was  true.  McArliss  apparently  fell  into  the 
cigarettes  first,  or  perhaps  he  had  fallen  deeper. 
Bellair  did  not  join  them  in  the  cabin,  but  heard 
their  voices.  The  next  day  McArliss  hunted  him 
up,  an  inconceivable  action.  This  was  not  like 
timid  Spring,  but  sudden  redolent  summer  after 
the  austerities.  The  man  was  on  fire,  but  per 
fectly  in  hand.  All  that  he  had  thought  and  kept 
to  himself  for  months  appeared  to  come  forth  now 

[96] 


THE    JADE:    n 

— books  and  men,  the  great  oceans  of  spirit  and 
matter,  and  the  mysteries  of  life  and  release.  It 
seemed  as  if  his  body  and  brain  had  suddenly  be 
come  transparent.  The  Captain  was  happy  and 
kind,  without  oath  or  scandal,  full  of  colour  and 
romance ;  returning  with  excellent  measure  all  the 
good  thoughts  that  Bellair  had  given  to  him,  and 
showing  forth  for  one  rare  forenoon  the  memor 
able  fabric  of  a  man. 

There  was  no  repetition  to  his  stages.  In  the 
afternoon  he  passed  Bellair  brusquely,  and  drank 
the  night  away  with  Stackhouse.  The  next  day 
both  face  and  figure  had  a  new  burden;  the  real 
man  was  now  imprisoned  more  effectively  than 
even  his  sobriety  could  accomplish.  .  .  .  Then 
the  descent  day  by  day — the  narrow,  woman's 
waist  and  the  broad,  lean  shoulders  becoming  a 
hunched  unit,  face  averted,  hands  thick.  Bellair 
always  felt  that  Stackhouse  was  in  a  way  respon 
sible — for  the  old  Master  had  known  what  would 
come  and  lured  it  on.  He  had  foretold  each 
stage — even  to  the  last  of  McArliss  drinking 
alone. 

On  two  nights  Fleury  was  with  him  while  he 
met  his  devils.  He  had  outraged  Bellair  at  every 
offer  and  entrance.  Even  Stackhouse  was  sur 
prised  that  the  preacher  was  permitted  to  attend. 
His  poor  vitality  at  length  began  to  crawl  back 
into  his  body  with  terrible  pain  and  shattered  san 
ity — that  old  familiar  battle,  the  last  of  many 

[97] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 

storms.  And  now  the  Jade  was  sailing  up  into  the 
summer  of  the  southern  ocean.  Midwinter  in 
New  York  and  here  a  strange,  spacious  sort  of 
June,  not  without  loneliness  and  wonderment  to 
Bellair  for  the  steady  brightness  and  exceeding 
length  of  day. 

The  new  moon  had  come  down,  extraordinary 
in  its  earthshine  which  Fleury  explained.  The 
Jade  was  marking  time,  just  making  steerage 
headway,  the  breeze  too  light  for  good  breathing. 
.  .  .  To-night  (as  had  happened  a  dozen  times 
before  on  the  other  side  of  South  America  before 
the  cold  weather)  Stackhouse  had  begun  his  story 

with,  "It  was  a  night  like  this "    As  of  old 

it  was  the  tale  of  man  and  death,  of  the  Stack- 
house  escape  from  death,  sinuously  impressing  the 
Stackhouse  courage  and  cleverness.  Not  that  the 
story  was  without  art;  indeed,  as  usual,  it  was 
such  a  one  as  a  man  seldom  leaves  until  the  end ; 
but  Bellair  had  long  since  reached  the  moment  of 
sufficiency.  He  had  come  to  the  end  of  his  fa 
vourite  author;  had  begun  to  see  the  mechanism 
and  inventional  methods  of  the  workmanship. 
Vim  was  lost  for  the  enactment  of  Stackhouse's 
fiercer  strength.  The  man  was  a  concentrated 
fume  of  spirit,  every  tissue  falsely  braced,  his  very 
life  identified  with  the  life  and  heat  of  decay.  .  .  . 

Alone,  Bellair  glanced  about  before  going  be 
low.  A  breeze  had  slightly  quickened  the  ship 
in  the  last  hour.  There  may  have  been  a  dozen 

[98] 


THE    JADE:    n 

nights  of  equal  mystery  but  this  he  appreciated 
more  soundly  and  was  grateful  for  freedom.  His 
mind  answered  the  beauty  of  it  all  ...  some 
thing  of  this,  he  might  be  able  to  tell  Bessie  in  a 
letter.  The  stars  were  far  and  tender;  the  air 
heavenly  cool  and  soft,  the  night  high,  and  the 
ship's  full  white  above,  had  something  to  do  with 
angels — a  dreamy  spirit-haunt  about  it  all.  He 
would  always  see  the  Jade  so,  as  he  would  see  the 
Captain  in  that  wonderful  forenoon  of  his  eman 
cipation — poor  McArliss  who  had  not  been  on 
deck  for  days. 

Twenty  minutes  later,  with  paper  before  him 
in  his  berth,  Bellair  was  deep  in  the  interpretation 
of  his  heart,  when  the  Jade  struck  the  cupola  of 
a  coral  castle,  and  hung  there  shivering  for  five 
seconds.  It  was  like  a  suspension  of  the  law  of 
time. 

Bellair  thought  of  Bessie,  of  every  one  on  the 
ship,  beginning  with  Fleury  and  the  New  Zealand 
woman,  and  ending  with  Captain  McArliss  and 
the  owner's  Japanese  wife.  These  latter  two  were 
strangely  rolled  into  one,  as  their  images  came. 
He  thought  of  the  ship's  position  somewhere  in 
the  great  emptiness  between  the  Strait  of  Magel 
lan  and  Polynesia.  He  re-read  the  last  line  of 
the  letter  before  him.  It  had  to  do  with  the  real 
help  he  hoped  to  be  in  Bessie's  cause  within  the 
year.  He  heard  the  running  and  the  hard-held 
voices  on  deck,  and  one  great  bellowing  cry  from 

[99] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 


Stackhouse.  He  knew  now  that  all  the  tales  were 
the  low  furies  of  fear;  that  the  movement  he  had 
seen  first  in  the  eyes  of  the  great  animal  were  the 
movements  of  fear.  .  .  . 

And  then  the  Jade  slid  off  the  reef  with  a  rip 
more  tragic  than  the  strike. 


Hissing  and  sucking  began  below,  and  the 
drawing  of  the  centre  of  the  earth.  Bellair. 
felt  this  in  his  limbs,  and  the  limp  paralysis 
of  the  sails.  It  was  like  the  blind  struggle  in  the 
soul  of  a  bird,  this  strain  in  the  entity  of  the  old 
Jade  to  retain  her  balance  between  earth  and 
sky.  .  .  .  Bellair  was  on  his  knees  dragging  forth 
his  unused  case.  The  roll  of  New  York  papers 
came  with  it,  and  he  stuffed  them  in  overcoat 
pockets  with  a  six-shooter,  a  bottle  of  whiskey  and 
a  few  smaller  things.  These  arrangements  were 
made  altogether  without  thought.  Unfumblingly, 
he  obeyed  a  rush  of  absurdities  that  seemed  ob 
vious  and  reasonable  as  in  a  dream. 

The  touch  of  water  on  his  knee  as  he  arose  was 
like  a  burn.  It  poured  in  under  the  door,  its 
stream  the  size  of  a  pencil,  a  swift  and  quiet  little 
emissary.  It  occurred  —  a  queer,  rational  touch  — 
that  the  Jade  could  not  be  thus  filled  so  soon,  that 
something  must  have  overturned.  He  opened  the 
door  to  the  deck.  Night  and  ocean  were  all  one; 
the  rest  was  the  stars,  and  this  bit  of  chaos  recoil- 

[100] 


THE    JADE:    11 

ing  from  its  death — a  little  ship,  struck  from  the 
deep  and  perceiving  her  death  like  a  rat  that  has 
been  struck  by  a  rattler.  He  srnelled  the  sea, 
as  one  in  a  night-walk  smells  the  earth  when  pass 
ing  a  ravine. 

He  moved  aft  toward  the  voices,  without  yet 
having  thought  of  his  own  death.  He  passed  a 
leaking  water-cask,  and  this  reminded  him  of  his 
thirst.  He  took  a  deep  drink — all  he  could — and 
his  thoughts  came  up  to  the  moment.  At  the 
same  time,  that  which  had  been  a  mass  of  inar 
ticulate  sounds  cleared  into  a  more  or  less  coherent 
intensity  of  action. 

He  heard  that  the  Jade  was  sinking,  but  knew 
that  already;  heard  that  she  would  be  under  in 
five  minutes,  which  was  news  of  the  first  order 
of  sensation.  .  .  .  Now  he  heard  Stackhouse 
again;  the  rich  unctuous  voice  gone,  a  sharp,  dry 
peaking  instead.  .  .  .  They  were  aft  at  the  bin 
nacle — Stackhouse,  Fleury,  the  Faraway  Woman, 
McArliss.  The  Japanese  woman  was  hurrying 
forward  with  a  pitcher  of  wine.  Stackhouse  drank 
from  the  pitcher,  standing,  and  with  greed  that 
flooded  his  chest.  He  spoke  and  the  Japanese 
woman  vanished. 

Bellair  saw  the  face  of  McArliss  in  the  white 
ray  from  the  binnacle.  He  had  scarcely  seen  the 
Captain  for  a  week.  Last  seen,  it  was  a  face 
swollen  and  flaming  red.  It  was  yellow  now,  like 
the  skin  of  a  chicken,  and  feathered  with  patches 

[101] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 


of  white  beard.  The  loose  eye-lids  were  touched 
with  blue.  He  fumbled  with  a  cigarette,  and 
called  hysterically  to  an  officer  amidships.  He 
was  not  broken  from  the  tragedy,  but  from  the 
debauch. 

Stackhouse  was  standing  by  the  small  boat 
when  two  sailors  came  to  launch  it.  He  rocked 
from  one  foot  to  another  and  peaked  to  them  in 
cessantly.  Fleury  and  the  woman  stepped  nearer 
the  boat.  They  moved  together  as  one  person. 
.  .  .  Bellair  saw  Stackhouse  raise  his  hands  as  he 
had  done  that  first  Sunday,  pushing  Brooklyn 
from  him.  His  body  pressed  against  the  gunwale 
of  the  small  boat;  he  caught  it  in  his  hands,  as 
it  raised  clear,  his  ridiculous  ankles  alternately 
lifting. 

His  Chinese  cook  rushed  forward  with  cans  of 
crackers,  and  dumped  them  in  the  boat.  The 
Japanese  woman  appeared  dragging  a  huge  ham 
per  of  wines  and  liquors.  Stackhouse  took  the 
hamper  between  his  legs  and  sent  her  back  to  his 
cabin.  The  boat  was  lowered  just  below  the  level 
of  the  Jade's  gunwale.  Stackhouse  sprawled  for 
ward,  the  hairy  masses  of  his  legs  writhing  after. 
Presently  he  reversed,  and  began  to  reach  for  the 
hamper.  Fleury  kicked  it  out  of  reach,  and  lifted 
the  woman  and  child  in. 

"Get  water,"  he  said  to  Bellair.  'Til  save  a 
place  for  you." 

Bellair  tossed  his  overcoat  into  the  boat  and 

[102] 


THE    JADE:    n 

darted  to  the  galley,  where  he  found  cans.  Filling 
them  seemed  a  process  interminable,  until  he 
pulled  over  the  half-filled  cask.  .  .  .  Stackhouse 
was  screaming  for  his  hamper.  The  Japanese 
woman  sped  by  with  more  bottles.  She  tried  to 
put  them  in  the  boat,  but  Fleury  took  them  from 
her,  and  attempted  to  force  her  into  a  place,  but 
she  had  heard  a  final  command  from  her  lord  and 
broke  away.  .  .  .  Bellair  was  filling  his  cans  a 
second  time.  .  .  .  Stackhouse,  who  had  risen  in 
sanely,  was  rocked  back  either  by  word  or  blow 
from  Fleury.  The  small  boat  was  on  the  sea,  and 
the  Jade's  rail  leaned  low  to  it.  The  sea  was 
roaring  into  the  mother-boat;  she  would  flurry  in 
an  instant. 

"Yes,  water,  Bellair,"  said  Fleury.  "But  don't 
go  back." 

"One  more  trip,"  said  Bellair. 

He  filled  the  last  can — his  mind  holding  the 
image  of  Stackhouse  on  his  knees  praying  to 
Fleury  for  his  hamper.  Beseechings  back  in  the 
dark  accentuated  the  picture.  Fleury  was  calling 
for  him.  .  .  .  He  passed  the  Japanese  woman, 
sobbing  and  skuffing  pitifully  back  to  the  cabin; 
as  a  child  sent  repeatedly  for  something  hard  to 
find.  He  heard  the  launching  of  the  other  and 
larger  boat  forward ;  saw  at  the  binnacle  McArliss 
still  fumbling  for  a  match.  Then  Fleury  grasped 
him  and  his  can.  .  .  .  No,  it  was  the  woman's 
hand  that  saved  the  can  from  overturning.  Bel- 

[103] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 

lair  would  have  waited  for  the  Japanese  woman, 
but  the  Jade  dipped  half-over  and  slid  him  into 
the  boat. 

The  mother-ship  shuddered.  The  Japanese 
woman  passed  the  binnacle,  holding  something 
high  in  her  hand.  She  was  on  her  knees.  .  .  . 
There  was  a  flare  and  the  face  of  McArliss — who 
had  struck  his  match  at  last.  .  .  .  The  Jade 
seemed  to  go  from  them — a  sheet  of  grey  ob 
scured  the  rail.  The  two  who  remained  were 
netted  there  together,  the  red  point  of  the  cigarette 
flickered  out.  .  .  .  The  two  boats  were  on  the 
sea;  the  night,  a  serenity  of  starlight.  .  .  .  The 
sound  of  slobbering  turned  their  eyes  to  Stack- 
house,  who  was  drinking  from  one  of  the  large 
cans.  .  .  .  Fleury  went  to  him,  pressed  the  face 
from  it,  and  placed  the  cans  forward  at  the  feet 
of  the  woman.  His  hand  was  sticky  afterward,  as 
if  with  blood,  and  he  held  it  overside. 


[104] 


PART  FOUR:  THE  OPEN  BOAT 


[lOffJ 


PART  FOUR 
THE    OPEN    BOAT 


BELLAIR  was  athirst.  The  fact  that  he  had 
taken  a  deep  drink  less  than  a  half-hour 
before,  did  not  prevail  altogether  against 
it.  In  the  very  presence  of  Stackhouse 
there  was  a  psychological  intensity  of  thirst.  The 
master  sat  hunched  and  obscene  in  the  stern  of 
the  boat,  patting  the  wet  folds  of  his  shirt — a 
pure  desire-body,  afraid  of  death,  afraid  of 
thirst,  afraid  of  the  fear  of  thirst  and  death. 
Picturesqueness  and  personality  were  gone  from 
him ;  romance  and  the  strange  culture  of  the  man, 
for  the  eyes  of  Bellair;  the  old  wonder,  too,  which 
the  seas  and  the  islands  of  the  seas  had  given  him. 
Bellair  could  not  forget  the  ankles,  the  moving 
of  those  bare  masses  up  and  down,  as  Stackhouse 
had  clung  at  the  same  time  to  the  small  boat  and 
the  gunwale  of  the  Jade.  What  a  poison  to  past 
tales — this  present  passion  and  method  of  self- 

[107] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 

salvation.  He  was  less  than  a  beast,  in  retaining 
the  effigy  of  a  man. 

Bellair  turned  to  Fleury.  Like  swift  pleasant 
rays  in  the  dark,  the  last  scenes  of  the  main-deck 
recurred.  Again  he  marvelled  at  the  falsity  of 
his  first  judgments,  by  which  he  had  formerly 
set  so  much,  and  so  complacently.  It  had  seemed 
a  fat  face  to  him  at  first,  a  face  out  of  true  with 
the  world,  the  face  of  an  easy  man  who  placates 
things  as  they  are,  because  he  was  not  trained  to 
see  the  evil  of  them  and  give  them  fight.  All 
that  was  remembered  with  difficulty,  even  for 
this  moment  of  contrast.  It  would  not  come 
again.  Fleury  had  stood  up  in  the  crisis,  a  man 
to  tie  to.  He  would  never  be  the  same  again  in 
look  or  action  or  intonation;  as  Stackhouse  could 
never  be  the  same.  Fleury  had  risen  and  put 
on  a  princely  dimension;  the  other  had  lost  even 
that  uncertain  admirableness  of  gross  animalism. 

The  preacher  was  leaning  forward  toward  the 
knees  of  the  woman,  talking  to  the  babe.  Bellair 
imagined  its  eyes  wide-open  and  sober;  certainly 
it  was  still.  The  mother's  face  was  partly  turned 
away.  Fleury  said: 

"He  is  having  his  adventures.  He  will  be  a 
great  man.  He  will  have  the  world  at  his  finger 
tips,  when  he  is  as  old  as  we  are — and  then  his 
real  work  will  begin.  For  when  we  know  enough 
of  the  world,  we  turn  to  God." 

The  note  of  the  preacher  in  this  did  not  em- 
[108] 


THE      OPEN      BOAT 

barrass  Bellair,  as  it  would  have  done  before  the 
Jade's  sinking. 

"He  will  be  a  great  power,"  Fleury  went  on, 
for  the  heart  of  the  mother.  "These  things  which 
for  him  pass  unconsciously,  will  form  him  never 
theless.  They  will  do  their  work  within;  and 
when  he  is  grown  he  will  know  what  to  do  and 
say." 

"How  do  you  know*?"  the  mother  asked. 

"Chiefly  because  I  believe  in  you,"  he  answered. 

"I  want  him  to  live,"  she  said. 

"We  want  that,  too,"  said  Fleury. 

Bellair  felt  himself  nodding  in  the  dark. 

"If  he  is  to  be  a  great  man,  he  will  have  to  live 
through  his  first — at  least,  through  this  adven 
ture." 

The  meaning  came  very  pure  to  Bellair.  It 
had  to  do  with  crackers  and  water  for  the  nourish 
ment  of  the  child.  So  strong  and  sure  was  her 
own  fortitude  that  she  did  not  need  to  say  she  was 
thinking  only  of  food  and  drink  for  him.  It 
meant  to  Bellair,  "If  I  cannot  nurse  him,  he  will 
die." 

He  regarded  the  length  and  beam  of  the  small 
boat.  It  was  not  more  than  eighteen  feet  long 
— and  only  the  Polar  seas  could  be  emptier  than 
this  vast  southern  ocean.  The  nights  would  be 
more  easily  endured,  but  the  days,  one  long  burn 
ing.  Still  it  would  not  be  torrid  heat;  they  were 
too  far  south  for  that.  The  thought  of  storm,  he 
[109] 


LOT      &      COMPANY 


kept  in  the  background  of  his  mind.  They  all  did. 
Roughly  estimated,  there  was  food  and  water 
enough  for  them  to  live  without  great  agony  for 
a  week,  possibly  for  a  day  or  two  over,  but  Stack- 
house  was  not  a  part  of  this  consideration.  He 
could  not  live  a  week  without  an  abnormal  con 
sumption  of  water.  .  .  . 

Fleury  was  talking  about  the  stars.  They 
would  see  Venus  before  dawn,  he  said;  the  great 
one  in  their  meridian  now  was  Jupiter.  "If  we 
had  a  marine-glass,  we  would  be  able  to  see  his 
moons.  .  .  .  That,"  he  pointed  to  the  brightest 
of  the  fixed  stars,  a  splendid  yellow  gleam  in  the 
east,  "that  is  Canopus,  never  seen  north  of  the 
Gulf  States  at  Home.  It's  so  mighty  that  our 
little  earth  would  turn  molten  in  ten  seconds  if 
it  came  as  near  as  our  sun." 

Bellair  leaned  toward  him  listening.  The 
preacher  pointed  out  the  Southern  Cross,  and 
Alpha  Centauri,  almost  the  nearest  of  the  sun's 
neighbours. 

Their  thoughts  groped  naturally  to  such  things. 
In  the  full  realisation  of  their  helplessness,  they 
looked  up.  The  background  was  a  deep  fleckless 
purple.  Bellair  hadn't  known  the  great  stars  of 
the  northern  skies,  much  less  these  splendid 
strangers.  The  brimming  closeness  of  the  dark  sea 
harrowed  the  landsman's  heart  of  him;  and  there 
was  something  as  great  or  greater  than  the  actual 
terror  of  ultimate  submerging.  It  was  the  fear 

[110] 


THE      OPEN      BOAT 


of  the  fear ;  the  same  that  causes  men  to  leap  from 
high  places  through  the  very  horror  of  the  thought 
of  leaping.  The  water  lapped  the  clinkered  sides 
of  the  small  boat.  He  touched  it.  His  flesh  took 
from  the  coolness  something  that  numbed  the 
pervading  alarm;  a  message  which  the  wet  hand 
sensed,  but  the  brain  could  not  interpret.  The 
presence  of  the  others  forward  sustained  him; 
Stackhouse  in  the  stern  was  the  downpull;  thus 
Bellair  was  in  the  balance. 

It  was  yet  far  from  dawn;  certainly  no  lighter, 
but  Bellair  could  see  better.  The  woman  was 
looking  away.  He  knew  that  he  would  see  her 
so,  until  the  last  day  of  her  life — that  profile  of 
serene  control,  that  calm,  far-seeing  gaze.  .  .  . 
What  gave  her  this  quiet  power?  .  .  .  Already 
the  thoughts  of  the  three  were  intimate  matters 
to  all.  It  seemed  very  natural  now  to  ask  Fleury 
what  gave  the  woman  such  strength. 

"It's  the  sense  that  all  is  well,  in  spite  of  this 
physical  estrangement  from  the  world,"  the 
preacher  said.  "Bellair,  it's  the  sense  that  nothing 
matters  but  the  soul.  It's  not  belief;  it's  knowing. 
She  has  lost  the  sense  of  self.  She  is  through 
talking.  It  is  finished  with  her.  We  talk,  be 
cause  it  is  not  finished  in  us — but  it  is  being  ac 
complished.  We  talk  because  we  want  that  peace ; 
when  it  comes  we  will  not  talk,  but  live  it.  It  is 
exactly  opposite  to  desire;  you  can  see  that " 

Yes,  Bellair  could  see  that.  He  had  but  to 
[ill] 


LOT     &      COMPANY 


turn  back  in  his  seat  to  confront  Stackhouse 
wringing  his  heavy  twitching  hands  and  begging 
for  water,  begging  like  a  leper,  now  that  a  face 
turned  to  him — the  most  frightful  picture  of  the 
work  of  desire  and  the  fear  of  desire,  that  the 
world  or  the  underworld  could  furnish.  Less  than 
two  hours  before  he  had  drunk  a  quart  and  wasted 
a  pint  in  his  greed;  and  behind  Bellair  was  the 
silent  woman  and  Fleury,  thinking  of  others,  full 
of  the  good  of  the  world.  ...  In  the  worldliness 
that  came  to  him  from  Stackhouse,  the  intimacy 
of  the  matter  they  had  just  talked  about  seemed 
startling. 

"One  can't  help  but  notice  what  you  get  from 
somewhere — and  what  the  woman  has,"  Bellair 
added. 

They  were  in  the  grey  mystery  of  dawn — 
alone,  for  they  had  drifted,  and  the  sailors  in 
the  other  boat  had  begun  to  row  at  once.  Stack- 
house  was  lifted  a  little,  brought  nearer,  possibly 
by  the  tension,  which  they  all  came  to  know  so 
well — the  tension  of  that  grey  hour,  before  the 
day  reveals  the  sea. 

"It  was  my  ship,"  he  whimpered.  "It  was  my 
hamber — McArliss  was  mine  and  the  ser- 


vice- 


"You'd  have  had  them  all  yet,  but  you  amused 
yourself  watching  poor  McArliss  fall  into  the 
drink.  You  would  have  had  it  all — just  the  same 

[112] 


THE     OPEN      BOAT 


this  morning — for  he  would  never  have  hit  the 
reef  on  duty " 

It  was  Bellair  who  spoke,  and  the  thing  had 
suddenly  appeared  very  clear  to  him.  Stack- 
house  did  not  falter  from  the  present,  his  huge 
head  darting  east  and  west  to  stare  through  the 
whitening  film. 

"It  was  my  hamber.  There  is  room  here  at 
my  feet.  It  was  little,  yet  meant  so  much.  I 
should  not  have  troubled  you " 

The  lack  of  it  seemed  suddenly  to  hurt  him 
even  more  poignantly. 

"You  will  all  go  to  hell  with  your  talk  of 
beace,"  he  declared,  looking  between  them  but 
at  no  pair  of  eyes.  "I  will  go  first,  what  with 
the  drink  dying  out,  but  you  will  not  be  long. 
There  is  hell  for  me,  but  for  all  alike.  You  may 
live  days — but  the  longer,  the  more  hell.  And 
you  will  all  come  at  last — to  the  long  deep  drink 
of  the  brine " 

"Oh,  come  now,  Stackhouse,"  said  Bellair.  "It 
may  not  turn  out  so  badly.  You've  had  luck  be 
fore.  You've  talked  much  to  me  of  luck — and 
deaths  of  others.  If  it's  your  turn — face  it  as 
your  innumerable  friends  faced  it." 

The  man  was  undone  before  them.  The  flesh 
of  his  jaws  stood  out,  as  if  pulled  by  invisible 
fingers.  His  heavy  lips  rubbed  together,  so  that 
they  turned  from  the  sight  of  them. 

"There  was  room  in  the  boat  for  that  basket 

[113] 


LOT      &      COMPANY 


of  rum,"  he  called  out  insanely.  "It  was  all  to 
me.  There  is  no  talk  of  God  for  me — rum  was 
all  I  had!  ...  I  would  have  been  so  quiet.  It 
would  have  been  here  at  my  feet,  but  for  that 
fool  who  talks  of  God,  and  can  never  know  the 
thirst  of  men." 

Fleury  turned  to  him,  his  face  deeply  troubled. 
It  occurred  to  Bellair  that  there  was  something 
to  what  Stackhouse  said.  Fleury,  in  kicking  back 
the  hamper,  had  kept  the  devil  of  Stackhouse 
from  entering  the  boat,  and  Stackhouse  served 
no  other.  .  .  .  More  and  more  it  was  twist 
ing  his  brain,  as  young  alligators  twist  at  a  car 
cass. 

"I  would  have  had  it  here  between  my  knees. 
And  I  would  have  had  the  little  bottle  from  the 
cabin — the  last  that  boots  you  to  sleep " 

"And  so  that  is  what  you  sent  her  back  for — 
sent  her  to  her  death " 

"You  lie.  She  was  held  here — trying  to  get 
the  hamber  to  me.  There  would  have  been  time. 
She  would  have  gone  and  come.  She  would  have 
been  here  now " 

Bellair  and  Fleury  glanced  at  each  other. 

"I  am  rotted  with  drink — and  will  drink  the 
brine  first,  but  you  will  follow  me.  You  will 
bring  it  up  with  your  hands  and  drink — and 
drink " 

He  was  looking  at  Fleury  now.  The  intensity 
of  thirst  in  the  spectacle  of  him — the  presence  of 

[114] 


THE     OPEN     BO  AT 


that  vast  galvanism  of  thirst — was  like  a  burning 
sun  in  their  throats.  The  baby  cried,  and  the 
mother  drew  him  shudderingly  to  her  breast. 
Fleury  swallowed  hard,  his  face  haggard  and 
drawn  in  the  daybreak.  He  went  over  and  took 
his  seat  before  the  monster.  Bellair  was  tempted 
to  ask  him  to  be  easy,  but  there  was  no  need. 
Fleury  turned  and  drew  a  cup  of  water  and  handed 
it  to  the  other.  Bellair's  jaws  ached  cruelly  from 
the  drain  of  empty  glands. 

"We  should  pity  you,  Stackhouse,"  he  said, 
"but  we  are  not  facing  death  now.  You  fill  the 
boat  with  thirst — you  fill  the  sea — with  your 
thinking  drink  and  talking  drink — until  you  bring 
a  cry  of  thirst  to  the  little  child.  It's  as  if  we 
had  gone  sixty  hours — instead  of  six " 

He  talked  on  for  the  sake  of  the  woman.  Stack- 
house  drank  and  grew  silent.  Bellair  felt  better 
and  braver — even  though  the  full  light  revealed 
nothing  but  empty  sea  and  heavenly  sky. 


Bellair  surveyed  his  world  as  the  dawn  came  up. 
.  .  .  Thirst  and  fasting;  possibly,  the  end. 
.  .  .  The  peculiar  part  of  his  open  boat  con 
templations,  no  two  were  alike.  Physical  de 
nial  hurried  him  from  one  plane  to  another  from 
which  he  regarded  his  world — his  two  worlds,  for 
Stackhouse  behind  was  one,  and  his  friends  for 
ward,  another;  the  one  drawing  his  love,  courage 

[115] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 

and  finest  ideals ;  the  other,  repression  of  self,  lest 
he  wear  himself  out  in  hatred.  They  were  not 
talkers  in  front.  He  had  not  seen  quite  the  entire 
fulfilment  of  Fleury's  meaning  about  talking  until 
late  moments.  The  Faraway  Woman  invariably 
said  little;  the  child  was  the  silentest  of  all; 
Fleury  had  met  this  demon  and  put  it  away. 
Stackhouse  had  talked  and  talked,  and  to  the 
pictures  he  made  with  words,  he  belonged  not 
at  all,  but  to  unspeakable  things.  Bellair  remem 
bered  his  own  talk  to  Filbrick.  It  made  him 
writhe.  He  had  become  crossed  and  complicated 
and  ineffective  that  day.  He  had  not  talked  in 
the  straight  line  of  heart  and  brain.  He  saw  that 
a  man  who  talks  that  which  he  is  not,  is  less  than 
nothing,  as  Stackhouse  was  less  than  nothing. 

"How  far  are  we  from  anywhere,  Bellair  *?" 
Fleury  asked. 

"We  weren't  supposed  to  strike  land  before 
Chatham  or  Bounty  Island — two  days'  sail  this 
side  of  New  Zealand,  as  I  understand  it.  We  lost 
land  six — a  week  ago  to-day — Madre  de  Dios> 
McArliss  called  it — off  the  west  Coast  of  South 
America.  With  good  wind  McArliss  planned  to 
sight  the  Islands  off  New  Zealand  in  three  weeks. 
We  had  a  week's  good  sailing  until  yesterday — so 
we  are  a  fortnight,  as  the  Jade  reckoned,  from — 
your  home" 

Bellair  turned  to  the  woman.  She  did  not 
speak. 

[116] 


THE     OPEN      BO  AT 


"Do  you  suppose  we  struck  coral?"  Fleury 
asked. 

The  subject  seemed  very  hopeless.  "I  saw 
the  charts  in  McArliss'  cabin.  No  reefs  were 
charted  according  to  our  passage.  We  may  have 
been  off  our  course.  But  I  do  not  understand. 
The  mate  took  our  bearings  yesterday  noon.  I 
do  not  know  what  he  reported  to  the  Cap 
tain " 

"It  may  have  been  a  sunken  wreck  that  we 
struck,"  said  Fleury. 

Bellair  had  thought  of  that.  He  turned  to 
Stackhouse,  who  might  have  had  something  to 
say,  but  the  other  stared  at  them  balefully — at 
their  faces,  not  meeting  their  eyes.  Either  he  had 
not  followed  their  words,  or  chose  to  take  no 
part. 

"If  we  are  in  the  course  of  any  ships  at  all, 
it  would  be  of  one  passing  our  route,  from  the 
Horn  to  the  Islands,"  Fleury  added.  "I  doubt  if 
it  would  do  us  any  good  to  row.  We  must  not 
tax  our  strength.  If  we  are  off  our  course,  we 
cannot  tell  whether  it  is  to  the  north  or  south, 
so  nothing  is  positively  to  be  gained.  It's  a  ques 
tion  of  hands  up.  The  other  boat  set  out  for 
somewhere  at  once.  If  they  find  ship  they  will 
tell  the  story " 

It  appeared  a  useless  recounting  of  obvious 
things.  Bellair  had  thought  this  out  bit  by  bit 
several  times  without  finding  the  least  substance 

[117] 


LOT     &      COMPANY 


to  tie  to.  Fleury's  addition  merely  accentuated 
the  bleakness  of  their  position. 

"Still,"  the  preacher  added,  "if  there  is  nothing 
for  us  to  do  in  the  way  of  struggle — the  rest  is 
simplified.  We  may  be  thoroughly  tested,  but  I 
feel  a  strange  confidence  of  our  ultimate  delivery. 
I  thought  of  it  before  we  had  parted  from  the 
Jade.  It  came  to  me  again  in  the  night.  I  be 
lieve  it  now.  We  do  not  belong  to  the  deep— 
not  all  of  us." 

Bellair  wondered  at  the  strength  which  came 
from  this.  He  placed  his  trust  upon  this  man, 
as  one  having  familiarity  with  a  source  which  he 
personally  did  not  draw  from.  The  preacher's 
words  were  designed  to  cheer  the  woman,  but  he 
could  not  let  them  pass  as  merely  for  that.  Fleury 
had  a  conviction,  or  he  would  not  have  spoken  so. 

The  air  grew  cooler  during  the  long  closing  of 
that  first  day.  Bellair  thought  of  his  overcoat 
which  lay  in  a  roll  under  the  narrow  planking 
forward  where  the  woman  sat.  The  bundle  of 
New  York  papers  dropped  out,  as  he  drew  the 
garment  forth.  He  opened  one  of  the  papers 
laughingly.  .  .  .  The  headlines  were  like  voices 
from  another  world.  The  abyss  between  the  real 
and  the  unreal  yawned  before  his  eyes  now  in 
the  open  boat.  New  York  seemed  to  be  fighting 
in  prints  for  things  so  little  and  unavailing.  So 
little  ago,  he,  Bellair,  had  moved  among  them, 
as  among  things  that  counted.  Now  what  was 

[118] 


THE      OPEN      BO  AT 


real  was  the  woman's  courage  and  the  substance 
of  Fleury's  faith,  and  the  hope  that  came  from 
the  immensity.  The  deep  contrasts  of  life  held 
Bellair. 

As  the  message  of  the  press  came  up  to  his 
eyes,  he  sunk  into  queer  apathy,  believed  himself 
dreaming  when  he  read  his  own  name.  He  was 
not  startled;  even  that  was  not  his,  but  an  inven 
tion  like  the  clicking  of  a  watch,  which  marks  off 
an  illusion  of  the  illusion  time.  .  .  .  An  after 
noon  paper,  dated  the  second  day  after  his  de 
parture  from  New  York;  a  brief  statement  of  his 
departure  with  certain  funds  of  Lot  &  Company; 
one  item  of  a  thousand  dollars,  several  others 
suspected  missing.  .  .  .  There  was  a  follow  story 
in  the  next  day's  issue:  Bellair  as  yet  unfound, 
was  believed  to  have  gone  to  the  Cobalt;  Bessie 
Break,  a  professional  singer,  had  passed  an  hour 
or  two  with  the  missing  man  on  the  eve  of  his 
flight.  He  had  spent  money  recklessly.  .  .  .  This 
was  all. 

He  dumped  the  papers  overside,  and  was  sorry 
afterward;  still,  there  was  not  physical  energy 
in  him  to  explain,  nor  comprehension  in  the  other 
two  for  such  details.  Lot  &  Company  had  sac 
rificed  him  to  ward  off  disclosures  he  might  make. 
Possibly  Attorney  Jackson  had  suggested  the  step. 
It  was  very  clear.  Even  if  the  station-porter  had 
not  mailed  his  letter,  they  would  have  found  his 
order  of  release  in  the  safe.  It  was  a  part  of  the 


LOT     &     COMPANY 


other  world — proper  business  from  Lot  &  Com 
pany's  point  of  view.  He  was  marked  a  thief  in 
his  small  circle.  He  seemed  to  see  the  face  of 
the  boarding-house  woman  as  she  heard  the  news. 
She  would  search  her  house.  .  .  .  And  Bessie 
Brealt.  .  .  .  The  tempter,  notoriety,  was  respon 
sible  for  her  small,  mean  part.  It  wasn't  an  acci 
dent.  She  must  have  looked  at  his  card  and  told, 
for  the  reporters  would  not  have  come  to  her. 
...  It  began  to  hurt  him,  mainly  because  of  the 
thoughts  and  dreams  of  helping  her,  which  had 
come  to  him  since,  especially  here  in  the  open 
boat.  She  had  fallen  into  one  of  the  little  tricks 
of  New  York — to  break  into  print  at  any  cost. 
There  wasn't  much  reality  in  the  rest,  nor  much 
chance  of  his  needing  New  York  again. 

.  .  .  Three  and  a  child  in  a  small  boat.  The 
pale  moon-crescent,  her  bow  to  the  sinking  sun, 
appeared  higher  in  the  west.  What  a  cosmic 
intervention — since  last  night  when  he  had  seen 
her  first  arc  and  the  earth-shine  from  the  deck  of 
the  Jade!  And  what  a  supper  he  had  gone  down 
to  afterward!  There  was  wrench  in  that — an 
age  since  then.  .  .  .  No  one  had  spoken  for  a 
long  time.  Bellair  wondered  if  the  man  and 
woman  thought  of  food  as  he  did. 

Three  and  a  child  in  the  empty  sea,  and  the 
great  suns  of  night  were  coming  forth  in  the 
deepening  dusk.  They  were  strangers,  but  more 

[120] 


THE     OPEN      BO  AT 

real  than  the  sea.  This  was  not  like  the  earth 
at  all;  and  yet  the  Jade  had  been  of  the  earth. 
Her  fabric  had  contained  the  bond  that  held  from 
port  to  port.  Stars  and  sea — one  more  real  than 
the  other,  and  different,  too,  for  there  was  horror 
in  looking  down,  but  hope  in  looking  up.  Some 
thing  in  his  breast  answered  the  universality — • 
but  quailed  before  the  deep. 

.  .  .  Just  now  Bellair,  lifting  his  overcoat  to 
draw  it  closer  around  him,  sensed  its  unaccustomed 
weight  on  the  left.  His  hand  sped  thither, 
touched  the  full  bottle  of  Bourbon  whiskey  pur 
chased  in  Savannah.  His  hand  remained  with 
it  a  moment.  A  shudder  passed  through  the  small 
boat  from  Stackhouse,  who  had  come  to  from 
another  hideous  sleep. 


Bellair  stared  into  the  sea.  No  one  had  spoken 
for  many  minutes.  It  was  close  to  noon.  Though 
all  that  had  to  do  with  memory  since  the 
sinking  of  the  Jade  was  treacherous,  accord 
ing  to  his  recounting,  it  was  but  the  second 
day;  that  is,  the  mother-ship  had  gone  down  in 
the  heart  of  night  before  last.  .  .  .  Bellair  had 
given  away  to  temptation,  when  he  let  his  eyes 
sink  into  the  depths.  He  had  fought  it  for  hours, 
and  knew  that  nothing  good  would  come  of  it, 
but  there  was  so  much  to  fight,  he  had  not  the 
further  strength  for  this. 

[121] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 


The  sea  was  calm  on  the  surface,  but  there 
appeared  a  movement  below,  so  vast  and  unhur 
ried,  that  it  was  like  some  planetary  function. 
There  seemed  a  draw  of  the  depths  southward, 
an  under-movement  toward  the  Pole.  At  times 
a  cloud  of  purple  would  rise  from  far  beneath  and 
shut  off  his  peering,  like  the  movement  of  blueing 
in  a  laundry-tub  before  it  is  well-diffused.  It 
came  to  him  that  this  was  but  a  denser  cloud- 
land — an  ocean  of  condensed  clouds,  moved  not 
by  winds  alone,  but  the  stirring  of  the  earth's 
mysterious  inner  attractions,  which  in  their  turn 
were  determined  by  the  sun  and  moon  and  stars. 
It  was  all  orderly,  but  he,  Bellair,  was  out  of 
order.  And  such  a  little  thing — a  quart  of  cool 
water,  and  any  one  of  the  thousands  of  meals 
he  had  thoughtlessly,  gratelessly  bought  and  paid 
for — thousands  consumed  with  a  book  at  hand,  or 
a  paper  to  keep  his  mind  off  the  perfunctory  rou 
tine  of  feeding  himself.  Hundreds  of  meals  he 
had  taken,  because  it  was  the  hour,  and  a  cigar 
was  more  pleasurable  afterward;  meals  in  his 
room — paper  packages  of  food,  pails  of  ice,  chilled 
bottles  with  a  mist  forming  on  them;  saloon 
lunches,  plates  of  colored  sausages,  creamy-rose 
slices  of  ham,  tailored  radishes  and  herring  pickled 
in  onions.  .  .  .  There  was  not  a  fish  in  the  sea, 
not  a  movement  but  the  blueing,  and  that  slide 
of  the  under-ocean  river  to  the  Pole. 

Yet  there  was  something  in  there — an  end  to 

[122] 


THE     OPEN      BOAT 


this  disorder.  It  would  take  all  he  had  left — the 
good  air.  It  was  like  a  knife  or  a  gun  or  a  poison- 
pill.  .  .  .  The  movement  below  was  so  strong 
that  it  would  grip  him,  shut  him  from  the  air, 
and  leave  him  slithering  along  toward  the  Pole, 
sometimes  sinking  sideways,  and  then  rising,  for 
ever  seeking  his  balance  .  .  .  not  forever.  He 
pictured  himself  in  a  school  of  herring,  thousands 
of  bright  lidless  eyes,  thousands  of  bubbles,  like 
eyes,  from  their  mouths  opening  and  shutting — 
he  slithering  sideways — his  hands  moving  in  the 
tugs  and  pressures.  They  would  cease  to  dart 
from  his  movements,  understanding  them  as  the 
ground-birds  know  the  wind  in  the  grass.  Lips 
and  eye-lids  and  nostrils — they  would  have  food. 
Food  was  the  great  event  of  the  day  to  all  things 
— except  men.  'Men  ate  by  the  clock,  ate  to 
smoke,  ate  to  soften  the  hearts  of  women  .  .  . 
yet  after  all  food  was  food.  ...  Or  one  big  fish. 
...  Or  two  fighting  for  him.  ...  Or  one  find 
ing  him  lying  still,  a  slow  fanning  of  fins  against 
the  purple  pressures,  watching  to  be  sure — then 
the  strike.  .  .  .  Once  he  had  examined  a  minnow 
after  the  strike  of  a  bass.  .  .  .  Where  would  he 
be  in  that  strike — or  in  that  herring  school-room — 
not  that  slithering  side-ways  thing — but  Tie? 
Would  he  be  watching  humorously,  or  back  in 
the  cage  with  Mr.  Sproxley,  or  in  Bessie's  bed 
room1?  Was  it  all  a  myth  about  that  other  he? 
It  seemed  a  myth  with  his  stomach  sinking,  tight- 

[123] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 

ening  like  a  dripping  rag  between  a  pair  of  mighty 
elbows.  In  the  centre  of  the  rag  was  a  compressed 
cork,  and  in  the  cork,  a  screw  was  twisting. 

Cork — that  made  him  think  of  the  whiskey.  He 
turned  from  the  water  to  the  coat  under  the  seat, 
his  eyes  blinking.  His  bare  foot  moved  pain 
fully  to  the  coat  and  along  the  breast  to  the 
pocket,  to  the  hard  hump  of  the  bottle. 

His  eyes  suddenly  filled  with  the  figure  of 
Stackhouse,  whose  attitudes  were  an  endless  series 
of  death  tableaus,  as  his  stories  had  also  pictured. 
His  face  had  broken  out  into  more  beard,  his  eyes 
glazed,  body  shapeless,  like  clothing  stuffed  with 
hair.  His  hands  held  the  primal  significance  of 
birth  and  death.  They  lay  upon  his  limbs,  the 
thumbs  drawn  into  the  palms,  the  first  and  little 
fingers  of  each  pointing  straight  down.  Bellair 
thought  of  how  death  contracts  the  thumb,  and 
how  infants  come  with  their  thumbs  in-drawn. 

Also  his  mind  was  played  upon  by  two  dis 
tinct  series  of  emotions — Stackhouse  representing 
one  set;  Fleury  and  the  Faraway  Woman  signify 
ing  the  other.  He  swung  from  power  to  power. 
Then  his  concern  and  fascination  for  Stackhouse 
changed  from  loathing  and  the  visible  tragedy,  to 
a  queer  passage  of  conjecture  regarding  the  world 
wide  processes  which  had  nourished  that  huge  body 
to  its  fall.  In  fact,  Bellair's  favourite  restaurants 
returned  to  mind  like  a  pageant;  the  little  inns 
on  the  Sound  that  he  used  to  go  summer  Saturday 

[124] 


THE     OPEN      B  OAT 

afternoons;  the  one  place  in  Staten  where  there 
were  corn-cakes  and  a  view  of  the  shipping;  the 
myriad  eating  and  drinking  places  of  New  York ; 
and  from  them  all,  one  shop  of  chop  and  chicken- 
broils  where  the  miracles  were  done  on  wood- 
embers,  so  that  even  the  smoke  that  filled  the 
place  was  seasoned  nutriment. 

"They  certainly  knew  how  to  buy,"  he  mut 
tered  aloud. 

It  was  a  kind  of  moan,  and  he  added  quickly: 
"I  beg  your  pardon." 

Fleury  and  the  woman  regarded  him  with  silent 
kindness. 

"I  was  just  thinking  of  a  man  I  knew — a  buyer 
of  canned  goods,"  he  explained  hastily.  "The 
bargains  in  canned-goods  he  had  a  way  of  pulling 
off !  There  wasn't  a  man  in  New  York  who  could 
bring  in  lines  of  stuff  at  the  figure  he  copped — a 
little  runt  of  a  man  named  Blath,  who  knew  his 
business " 

Fleury  leaned  back  as  if  reaching  for  support, 
his  quiet  smile  not  a  little  tender.  His  two 
browned  hands  came  forward  to  Bellair's  knees, 
and  he  said  with  a  devoted  smile : 

"I'll  not  forget  that  in  a  hurry.  .  .  .  Blath, 
you  say  his  name  was?" 

Bellair  knew  well  that  he  had  not  kept  his 
mental  pictures  from  Fleury's  mind.  His  entire 
consciousness  had  been  in  steam  and  woodsmoke 
having  to  do  with  broiling  meat.  The  three  were 

[125] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 

worn  thin,  worn  to  fine  receptivity,  and  caught 
one-another's  thought  without  effort  of  many 
words.  .  .  .  Though  he  did  not  turn,  a  shock  of 
pity  came  to  him  now  for  the  master.  He  had 
meant  to  save  the  opening  of  the  whiskey  for 
the  next  dawn,  vaguely  thinking  that  if  they 
should  find  the  sea  empty  once  more,  there  would 
be  that  false  strength  to  fall  back  upon.  Stack- 
house  could  not  live  more  than  a  day  or  two 
longer.  He  was  torn  by  devils,  his  only  surcease 
being  the  snap  of  consciousness  from  time  to  time. 
The  whiskey  had  been  upon  Bellair's  mind  like 
a  curse.  He  wanted  its  force  for  himself,  but 
never  really  meant  to  use  it,  had  not  even  given 
the  temptation  leeway.  His  lot  was  cast  with 
the  forward  forces;  they  would  not  have  touched 
the  contents  of  his  bottle.  This  did  not  change 
the  desire,  however. 

4 

The  third  day.  Bellair  was  light-headed  from 
the  scarcity  of  crackers.  Yesterday  had  been 
a  mingled  thirst  and  hunger  day,  but  this  was 
characterised  by  hunger  incessant.  Tomorrow  he 
anticipated  with  dread  another  thirst  horror,  and 
after  that,  no  hunger  at  all,  but  mighty  agony 
that  knew  but  the  one  word,  Water.  The  keen 
airs  of  night  and  morning,  and  the  sterilised  burn 
ing  of  the  noons,  constantly  fanned  and  stimulated 
the  natural  demands  of  the  body.  .  .  .  He  had 

[126] 


THE     OPEN      BOAT 


forgotten  the  newspapers.  Bessie's  face  came  be 
fore  him — something  of  her  deep  heart-touching 
tones  which  changed  him. 

"There  must  be  a  great  woman  there — a  great 
fine  woman — like  this  one." 

He  did  not  turn.  It  may  have  been  the  first 
concession  from  his  every-day  faculties  of  this 
woman's  actual  beauty.  He  had  already  granted 
this  deeper  within,  where  the  understandings  of 
men  are  wiser,  but  harder  to  get  at.  Certain  hours 
had  shown  him  the  clear  quality  of  saints  and 
martyrs;  and  he  had  seen  in  pure  life-equation 
that  the  child  was  worth  his  life  or  Fleury's. 
He  would  have  given  his,  as  most  white  men 
would,  but  it  was  different  to  see  the  value  and 
Tightness  of  it.  ... 

There  was  now  an  unspeakable  need  in  the 
stern.  He  drew  the  bottle  from  the  overcoat- 
pocket  at  his  feet,  without  turning.  Fleury  and 
the  woman  watched  him.  He  cut  the  small  wires 
with  his  knife,  tore  off  the  wafer,  half -expectant 
of  some  sound  from  behind.  .  .  .  The  day  was 
ending.  The  young  moon  newly  visible  in  the 
dusk  began  its  curve  into  the  west  from  a  higher 
point  in  the  sky.  .  .  . 

There  was  a  screw  in  Bellair's  knife.  It  sank 
noiselessly  into  the  cork,  but  the  first  creak  of  the 
stopper  against  the  glass  brought  the  jolt.  They 
all  felt  it — as  if  the  great  body  had  fallen  from  a 
dream. 

[127] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 

Stackhouse  was  staring  at  the  thing  in  Bel- 
lair's  hands,  his  tongue  visible,  his  face  filling 
with  light.  He  rubbed  his  eyes,  the  beginnings 
of  articulation  deep  in  his  throat.  He  was  trying 
to  make  himself  believe  it  was  not  a  vision.  That 
harrowed  them.  A  pirate  would  have  pitied  him 
— reptile  desire  imaged  not  in  the  face  alone,  but 
in  the  hands  and  all.  Bellair  poured  a  big  drink 
in  a  tin-cup.  Fleury  passed  him  a  gill  of  water. 
Stackhouse  drained  the  cup  with  a  cry. 

Something  earth-bound  slowly  left  his  face. 
In  contrast  it  grew  mild  and  reckonable ;  but  with 
in  an  hour  he  was  wild  with  pain,  and  dangerous 
for  night  was  falling.  In  the  light  of  the  moon 
there  was  treachery.  Bellair  and  Fleury  sat  to 
gether  in  the  centre.  The  other's  bulk  was  great 
and  the  boat  small.  In  becoming  custodian  of 
a  bottle  of  whiskey,  Bellair  now  required  help. 
He  wished  it  in  the  sea,  but  there  was  a  pang  of 
cruelty  about  that.  The  new  force  that  animated 
Stackhouse  had  to  be  reckoned  with.  It  was  both 
cunning  and  destructive.  There  was  no  murder 
in  their  hearts.  .  .  .  Stackhouse  drew  his  feet 
under  him,  helping  them  with  his  hands;  his  eye 
balls  turned  upward  from  the  agony  of  cramps 
in  his  limbs;  then  he  sank  forward  on  his  knees. 
The  craft  of  desire  had  turned  from  fighting  to 
Speech.  The  moon  was  grey  upon  his  breast 
and  gleamed  from  his  eyes. 

[128] 


THE      OPEN      BOAT 


"You  will  listen  to  a  man  who  is  dying.  Yes, 
Bellair,  you  will  listen — who  listened  to  me  so 
much.  .  .  .  Give  me  drink,  so  I  can  talk " 

"It  may  save  you — but  not  if  you  take  it  all 
at  once." 

The  creature  winced,  but  his  passion  moved  to 
its  appointed  ends.  He  drew  forth  the  large 
brown  wallet  they  had  often  seen;  rubbed  it  in 
his  hands,  until  his  fingers  could  feel ;  then  opened 
the  leather  band.  From  one  receptacle  he  lifted 
a  thick  package  of  bank-notes. 

"I  liked  you,  Bellair — almost  as  I  liked  one 
Belding.  I  could  have  done  much  for  you.  I 
hate  that  man,  for  he  has  made  my  death 
hard " 

His  face  turned  toward  Fleury,  but  did  not 
meet  the  preacher's  eyes. 

"The  Jade  brought  a  sweet  cargo  to  Ameriga, 
and  Stackhouse  does  not  bank  in  New  York. 
.  .  .  Bellair,  I  want  to  drink — so  the  talk  will 
come " 

So  absurd  was  the  sound  of  cargo  and  banking 
that  Bellair  thought  his  mind  had  wandered  again, 
yet  he  said: 

"You  are  better.  You  cannot  drink  each  hour. 
If  this  is  to  help  you,  you  must  be  sane." 

"I  have  something  to  say  of  imbortance — you 
will  help  me,  Bellair.  It  is  for  you." 

The  faces  of  Fleury  and  the  mother  gave  him 
[129] 


LOT     &      COMPANY 

no  help.  They  were  kind,  but  the  thing  seemed 
beneath  them,  as  if  they  were  waiting  for  him 
to  come  back  from  it. 

"You  have  stood  by  that  man,  and  not  by  me," 
Stackhouse  said  hoarsely.  "So  that  I  meant  to 
toss  this  in  the  sea  at  the  last — this  and  all  the 
papers " 

He  lifted  the  banknotes  and  showed  him  the 
collection  of  separately -banded  documents. 

"I  am  a  rich  man,  and  I  have  no  heir.  I  had 
thought  of  you,  but  you  turned  away  from  me 
and  did  not  continue  to  listen.  You  went  to  him 
of  the  breachings — but  you  have  now  what  is 
needful  for  me  and  I  will  bay.  I  have  no  heir. 
I  said  that  before.  I  dell  you  now.  A  dying 
man  does  not  lie.  There  are  papers  to  make  you 
rich,  for  I  have  other  fortunes.  Look,  I  will  toss 
it  into  the  sea — if  you  do  not  give  me  that 
bottle " 

Bellair  laughed  at  him. 

"These  are  thousand  dollar  notes — there  are 
fifty  of  them " 

Bellair  turned  aside  for  an  instant.  Money  and 
papers  of  more  money — these  were  very  far  from 
fanning  excitement  in  his  breast.  A  loaf  and  a 
jug  of  fresh  water  were  real;  the  moon's  higher 
appearance  each  night,  and  the  majestic  plan  of 
the  night-suns,  these  were  real.  Fleury,  the 
woman  and  the  babe,  lost  in  the  brimming  dark 
ness  of  earth's  ocean — they  were  real.  Like  the 

[130] 


THE     OPEN     BO  AT 


stars  they  had  to  do  with  the  mighty  Conceiver 
of  it  all.  They  were  a  part  of  the  Conception — 
and  so  they  were  real — but  the  dollars  of 
men.  .  .  . 

"And  do  you  know  what  I  will  do — after  I 
have  tossed  this  into  the  sea?" 

The  question  brought  him  back  quickly. 

"No,  Stackhouse,"  he  answered. 

"I  will  come  for  you  and  dake  that  bottle.  I 
am  big.  I  have  strength.  I  will  dake  it — or  you 
will  kill  me — and  that  will  be  the  end " 

Bellair  thought  of  that.  There  was  a  pistol 
in  his  coat.  He  did  not  want  to  use  it.  He  be 
lieved  Stackhouse  would  do  as  he  said. 

"For  God's  sake,  Bellair " 

"If  I  give  it  to  you — oh,  not  for  that  rubbish !" 
he  pointed  to  the  wallet.  "If  I  give  it  to  you — 
you  will  die  more  quickly " 

"That  is  what  I  want." 

"But  it  is  not  our  way " 

Stackhouse  tore  loose  from  his  shirtpocket  the 
heavy  gold  watch  and  its  heavier  chain,  dropped 
the  whole  into  one  of  the  folds  of  the  wallet  to 
weight  it  down.  "It  will  sink,"  he  said. 

"To  hell  with  it " 

"For  God's  sake,  Bellair !"  Stackhouse  moaned, 
his  arm  rising  with  the  wallet  and  falling  again. 

At  that  instant  Bellair  thought  of  Bessie  Break 
and  her  career.  .  .  .  He  turned  to  Fleury  and 
the  Mother.  They  were  regarding  him  with  kind- 

[131] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 

est  concern — as  if  he  were  a  loved  one  who  could 
not  fail  to  do  well  in  any  event.  Then  he  thought 
of  the  work  that  Fleury  might  do — the  preacher 
who  had  finished  with  talk,  and  was  so  eager  to 
act.  .  .  .  And  just  then,  the  little  child  turned 
to  him  from  the  mother's  breast — a  puzzled  look, 
but-calm,  and  a  flicker  of  the  damp  upper  lip,  as 
if  it  would  like  to  smile,  but  was  not  sure. 

Bellair  held  out  the  whiskey.  The  wallet  was 
thrust  in  his  hands  for  reception  of  the  bottle — a 
frenzied  transaction. 

They  begged  him  to  spare  it  for  his  own  peace. 
They  gave  him  water,  but  poor  Stackhouse  could 
not  live  with  the  stuff  in  his  hands.  In  fifteen 
minutes  the  bottle  was  drained,  and  then  the 
monster  wept. 

5 

The  night  roved  on  like  a  night  in  still  moun 
tains.  The  young  moon  had  sunk  behind  the 
sea.  Jupiter  in  meridian  glory  seemed  trying 
to  bring  his  white  fire  to  the  dying  red  of  Antares. 
...  A  dark  night  of  stars  now,  since  the  up 
start  moon  had  left  the  deeper  purple.  Most  of 
all,  Bellair  was  fascinated  by  the  great  yellow 
gleam  of  Canopus.  It  was  a  dry,  pure  dark — no 
drip  in  that  night — but  a  thirsty  horror  in  the 
saline  lapping  of  the  ocean  against  the  planks. 

Stackhouse  was  headless  in  the  shadow,  his  pig- 
like  breathing  a  part  of  all.  Fleury,  the  mother 

[132] 


THE     OPEN      B  OAT 


and  the  child  slept;  the  preacher's  head  close  to 
the  knees  of  the  woman.  Bellair  marked  that,  and 
that  Fleury  loved  her.  At  times  the  preacher's 
whole  life  seemed  an  effort  to  make  her  eat  and 
drink;  and  as  for  Fleury  himself  it  often  ap 
peared  that  he  required  no  better  nutriment  than 
that  of  conferring  food  and  water  upon  the  others. 
As  custodian,  he  claimed  authority  for  his  action. 
.  .  .  Bellair  thought  long  of  Bessie.  He  was 
watching  the  east  at  last  for  Venus  to  arise  ahead 
of  the  sun.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  But  Bessie  became  blurred.  He  did  not 
understand.  Either  his  brain  had  another  pic 
ture,  or  the  original  of  the  singing  girl  was  fading. 
...  A  New  York  voice,  no  passion,  but  ambi 
tion,  an  excellent  voice — and  such  a  beautiful, 
girlish  breast.  .  .  .  Bellair  tried  to  shake  this 
coldness  from  him.  This  was  not  being  true.  He 
had  a  faint  suspicion  that  a  man's  woman  is  more 
apt  to  depart  from  him  while  he  is  at  her  side 
than  when  he  is  away.  It  is  because  another  has 
come,  if  passion  for  the  old  dies,  when  one  is 
away.  Alone  and  apart,  man  is  more  ardent,  in 
fact,  unless  a  new  picture  composes.  .  .  .  He 
thought  of  Davy  Acton,  the  office  boy  at  Lot  & 
Company's,  that  wistful,  sincere  face — and  then 
Bellair  gave  way  to  the  night. 

This  was  a  new  sensation.  It  came  from  the 
hunger  and  thirst.  He  could  let  go.  The  purple 
immensity  would  then  take  him.  A  half-hour, 

[133] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 

even  an  hour,  would  pass.  It  was  not  sleep,  very 
different  from  that.  He  was  not  altogether  lost. 
A  little  drum-beat  would  come  back  to  him  from 
the  mighty  revery-space,  and  his  heart  would  an 
swer  the  beat.  He  seemed  to  be  on  the  borderland 
of  the  Ultimate  Secret;  and  invariably  afterward 
he  was  amazed  at  what  he  had  been — so  sordid 
and  sunken  and  depraved  was  the  recent  life  he 
had  known. 

"But  I  was  what  the  days  and  years  seemed  to 
want  of  me,"  he  muttered. 

That  was  the  gall  of  it.  Days  and  years  are 
betrayers;  all  the  activities  of  the  world  are  be 
trayers.  He  glimpsed  the  great  patience  of  the 
scheme.  Only  man  makes  haste.  Myriad  pres 
sures,  subtle  and  still-voiced,  tighten  upon  a  man, 
bringing  just  the  suggestion  that  all  is  not  well 
with  him.  Then  there  are  the  more  obvious  pres 
sures — fever,  desire,  the  death  of  a  man's  loves — 
to  make  him  stop  and  look  and  listen.  But  so 
seldom  does  he  relate  these  to  the  restlessness  of 
his  soul.  Rather  he  attributes  them  to  the  general 
misery  of  life.  He  has  been  taught  to  do  so — the 
false  teaching.  .  .  .  For  general  misery  is  not 
the  plan  of  life.  If  children  could  only  be  taught 
that  it  is  all  superbly  balanced,  the  plan  perfect; 
that  not  a  momentary  stress  of  suffering  comes 
undeserved;  that  the  burden  of  all  suffering  is 
to  make  a  man  change !  .  .  .  A  sentence  came  so 
clearly  to  him  that  even  his  lips  formed  it. 

[134] 


THE     OPEN      BO  AT 


"The  plan  of  life  is  for  joy!" 

He  saw  the  need  of  every  hundredth  man  at 
least,  arising  to  repeat  this  sentence  around  the 
world — arising  from  his  pain  and  husks  like  the 
Younger  Son,  and  returning  to  the  joy  of  the 
Father's  House.  .  .  .  Something  was  singing  in 
him  from  his  thought  of  children. 

"We're  too  old,"  he  thought,  meaning  the  mil 
lions  of  men  caught  in  the  world  as  he  had  been, 
"but  the  children  could  learn.  They  could 
change " 

He  had  turned  to  the  bow.  Fleury  was  a 
nearer  shadow,  sitting,  head  bowed  forward.  The 
Mother's  head  lay  back  against  Bellair's  coat,  the 
child  across  her  knees.  .  .  .  That  faint  grey  light 
was  about  her.  He  had  not  noted  this  at  first; 
it  seemed  to  have  come  from  the  moment  of  con 
templation — something  like  starlight,  something 
like  the  earth-shine  that  Fleury  explained.  Her 
lips  were  parted,  and  her  eyes  seemed  held  shut, 
not  as  if  she  slept  but  as  if  she  were  thinking  of 
something  dear  to  her — her  face  wasted  a  little. 

He  saw  it  more  clearly  than  the  faintness  of 
the  light  would  suggest — and  to  Bellair's  breast 
came  a  sudden  sense  of  her  expectancy.  It  seemed 
she  were  awake,  but  lying  back  with  eyes  shut 
awaiting  a  lover,  her  face  wasted  a  little  from 
the  burning  of  expectation.  For  a  moment  it  was 
very  beautiful  to  him.  Then  all  was  spoiled — 
for  the  personal  entered.  Almost  before  he  had 

[135] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 

any  volition  in  the  matter,  his  mind  had  flashed 
across  the  interval  of  space  between  them — as  if 
he  were  the  one  to  bring  that  token  to  the  parted 
lips. 

He  shook  his  head  with  impatience,  and  the 
miseries  of  the  hour  rushed  home  to  his  mind. 

.  .  .  Fleury  was  awake  and  they  were  whisper 
ing,  the  woman  still  asleep. 

"The  plan  of  the  world  is  for  joy,"  Bellair 
said  wearily.  "We  are  all  taught  that  it  is  a 
vale  of  tears — that's  the  trouble — taught  that  we 
must  grab  what  we  can." 

"If  we  won't  learn  from  joy — we've  got  to 
take  the  pain,"  said  the  preacher.  "We've  got 
to  get  out  of  the  conception  of  time  and  space  as 
the  world  sees  it  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  joy 
of  the  plan.  We  are  in  the  midst  of  a  superb 
puzzle.  To  those  who  see  only  the  matter  and 
not  the  meaning,  life  is  an  evil  country,  a  country 
of  dragons  and  monsters.  But  there's  a  soul  to 
it  all,  and  man  has  a  soul.  If  a  man  begins  to 
use  his  soul  to  see  and  think  with,  the  puzzle  begins 
to  unfold.  A  man's  soul  isn't  of  matter.  It's 
a  pilgrim  come  far,  far  to  go — very  eager 
to  get  this  particular  journey  through  matter 
ended " 

"But  why  make  the  journey1?" 

"To  learn  evil." 

"The  Younger  Son  wasted  himself  afield " 


THE     OPEN      BO  AT 


in  the  Father's  heart?"  Fleury  asked.  "Could  he 
not  appreciate  the  Father's  House  better  than  him 
who  had  not  left  it?  Man  is  greater  than  angels 
• — that's  hinted  at  everywhere  in  the  Scriptures. 
Angels  are  unalloyed  good.  The  man  who  has 
mastered  matter  becomes  a  creative  force.  All  the 
great  stories  of  the  world  tell  the  same  story — the 
wanderings  of  Ulysses,  the  tasks  of  Hercules.  The 
soul's  mastery  of  each  task  and  escape  from  each 
peril  and  illusion  is  an  added  lesson — finally  the 
puzzle  breaks  open.  The  adventurer  sees  the  long 
journey  of  the  soul,  not  this  little  earth-crossing. 
He  sees  that  his  misery  now  is  but  a  dip  of  the 
valley — that  the  long  way  is  a  steadily  rising 
road — that  the  plan  is  for  joy." 

It  came  home  to  him  closer  than  ever  before 
that  night.  His  soul  had  tried  to  express  itself 
and  ordain  his  higher  ways  these  many  years,  but 
he  had  lost  his  way  in  the  world.  He  perceived 
that  all  men  lose  their  way;  that  he  had  suddenly 
been  shaken  apart  so  he  could  see.  It  was  luck 
in  his  case — the  misery  at  Lot  &  Company's,  the 
singing  of  Bessie  Break,  the  unparalleled  contrasts 
here  in  the  open  boat.  But  why  should  he  be 
shown,  and  not  the  millions  of  other  imprisoned 
men?  Was  this  a  part  of  the  great  patience  of 
the  scheme  again?  Would  something  happen  to 
each  man  in  due  season,  some  force  in  good  time 
to  help  him  to  rise  and  be  free? 

"The  man  who  ties  himself  to  the  pilgrim — 
[137] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 

and  not  the  sick  little  chattering  world  creature 
— suddenly  finds  that  he  has  but  one  job,"  Fleury 
said  presently.  "He's  got  to  tell  about  it " 

The  world  suddenly  smote  Bellair. 

"Why,  men  would  say  a  man  was  crazy  if  he 
told  the  things  we  have  thought  this  night,"  he 
said,  leaning  forward.  "Maybe  we  are  a  bit  un 
sound.  Perhaps  these  are  illusions  we  are  har 
bouring — vagaries  from  drying  up  and  wasting 
away,  similar  to  the  vagaries  of  alcohol — doubt 
less " 

It  was  like  waking  from  a  dream — the  horrible 
sounds  now  from  the  stern.  Bellair  heard  Fleury's 
voice.  Turning,  he  saw  Venus  before  anything 
else.  It  was  the  thought  that  he  had  fallen  into 
the  revery  with,  and  had  to  be  finished  on  the 
way  out. 

Under  that  superb  vision  of  morning,  Stack- 
house  was  kneeling,  his  breast  against  the  rail, — 
bringing  up  to  his  mouth  great  palm-fuls  of 
brine. 


The  things  that  happened  in  the  open  boat 
on  this  fourth  day  are  not  altogether  to  be  ex 
plained.  A  metaphysician  from  the  East  ex 
plained  a  similar  visitation — but  like  many 
explanations  of  the  East,  the  foundations  of  his 
discussion  were  off  the  ground.  He  did  not  begin 

[138] 


THE      OPEN      BO  AT 


with  stuff  that  weighs-up  avoirdupois.  The  West 
can  weigh  the  moon  and  estimate  the  bulk  of 
Antares'  occulted  companion,  but  in  cases  where 
things  cease  to  be  weighable,  our  side  of  the  world 
sits  back  with  the  remark,  "It  is  well  enough  to 
hypothecate  the  immaterial,  but  what's  the  good 
of  it  when  you  can't  see  it?"  Also  when  the  East 
gently  suggests  an  opinion,  the  West  rises  to  de 
clare,  "Why,  you  people  haven't  got  gas  or  run 
ning  water  in  your  houses." 

Now  occasionally  there  comes  a  time  when  the 
Western  eye  sees  something  that  it  can't  touch 
or  smell  exactly,  and  it  is  easier  to  disbelieve  its 
own  senses  than  to  change  its  point  of  view  for 
an  Eastern  one.  Accordingly  it  says,  "I  was 
crazy  with  the  heat,"  or  as  Bellair  was  prone  to 
explain  away  the  visitation  of  this  day,  "The 
thirst  and  the  hunger  had  got  to  me." 

There  follows,  without  further  peroration,  an 
unheated  narrative  of  what  appeared  to  take  place 
on  that  fourth  day: 

As  was  expected  from  drinking  the  brine,  Stack- 
house  went  mad.  The  look  of  the  great  creature, 
his  very  identity,  changed,  went  out  from  him, 
and  something  else  came  in.  This  happens  when  a 
dog  goes  mad.  We  have  had  to  reckon  with  it 
in  our  own  families.  If  that  which  we  knew 
passes,  without  something  foreign  taking  its  place, 
the  result  would  be  a  mere  inert  mass  waiting 
for  death.  The  alienists  have  given  us  the  word 

[139] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 

obsession  to  explain  that  which  comes  instead, 
making  an  obscenity  and  violence  of  that  which 
we  knew.  In  the  olden  days  these  Enterers  were 
known  as  demons.  A  man  named  Legion  was 
beset  with  them,  and  Another  with  a  strong  will 
came  and,  according  to  the  story,  freed  Legion. 
That  which  had  denied  him  entered  a  herd  of 
swine,  the  bars  of  which  were  somehow  down  at 
the  time.  .  .  . 

They  had  ceased  to  hate  Stackhouse.  The  old 
Master  was  gone  into  who  knows  what  long  feed 
ing  dream1?  This  was  merely  his  body  that  they 
watched  for  an  hour  or  two  in  the  forenoon.  In 
fact,  Bellair  had  studied  the  departure  with  some 
detachment.  He  was  sitting  as  usual  in  the  centre 
of  the  boat,  glad  that  the  Stackhouse  agony  was 
done.  There  was  a  moment  in  which  it  appeared 
that  death  was  stealing  in  rapidly,  and  another 
in  which  a  new  kind  of  life  entered  the  body — as 
vandals  enter  to  despoil  a  house  after  the  tenant 
has  moved  away. 

The  hunched  body  had  suddenly  reached  for 
him  like  a  great  ape.  Bellair  had  felt  the  crip 
pling  force  of  the  touch,  and  an  almost  equal 
force  from  the  thought  that  flashed  in  his  mind 
— to  use  the  pistol.  .  .  .  The  boat  had  rocked  be 
neath  them.  The  blackness  of  much  blood  was 
in  Bellair's  brain.  The  struggle  was  brief. 
Through  it  all,  Bellair  heard  the  cries  of  the  child. 
Just  as  he  was  ready  to  fail,  the  monster  sat  back, 

[140] 


THE      OPEN      BOAT 


his  teeth  snapping  in  his  beard — the  huge  hands 
feeling  for  him,  as  one  blinded. 

"Change  places  with  me,  Bellair." 

This  was  from  Fleury — midforenoon  that 
fourth  day.  Bellair  obeyed  because  he  was  afraid 
of  the  pistol  at  hand. 

"I  don't  want  to  kill  him,"  he  panted. 

"It  will  not  come  to  that,"  Fleury  answered. 

It  was  then  that  the  transfer  of  seats  was  made. 
Bellair  relied  vaguely  upon  the  preacher's  greater 
strength  which  was  not  of  limb  and  shoulder. 
The  monster  dropped  to  his  knees  to  renew  the 
fight. 

"Be  still,"  Fleury  commanded.  "Be  still  and 
rest " 

Stackhouse  himself  would  not  have  faltered  be 
fore  that  voice  of  Fleury's,  but  there  was  a  force 
in  it  that  prevailed  for  a  moment  upon  the  ob 
session.  The  air  was  full  of  strain.  .  .  .  They 
heard  the  heart  in  the  poor  body.  The  blue-tipped 
hands  were  upraised  from  the  bottom  of  the  boat 
— the  face  was  toward  them.  Bellair  and  the 
Faraway  Woman  could  see  only  the  back  of 
Fleury's  head.  The  strain  was  like  a  vice  in  the 
open  boat. 

Bellair  contemplated  the  mystery:  that  this 
force,  lower  and  more  destructive  than  Stackhouse, 
could  be  managed  and  subdued  in  part  by  the 
energy  of  another's  will-power,  when  Stackhouse 
himself  would  have  required  brute  strength. 

[141] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 

.  .  .  He  thought  he  understood  what  was  going 
on,  though  he  would  likely  have  scouted  the  same 
had  some  one  told  him.  In  any  event,  Fleury 
was  quieting  the  complicated  thing  before  him. 
.  .  .  They  heard  the  heart-beats  rise  and  sink, 
the  hands  often  lifting  from  the  bottom.  The 
entire  passage  of  the  battle  was  magnified  before 
their  eyes.  Hours  passed.  Fleury  scarcely 
turned. 

So  far  there  is  nothing  to  call  in  the  Eastern 
metaphysicians,  but  the  day  was  not  done,  nor 
the  dying  galvanism  of  the  monster.  The  after 
noon  was  still  bright,  when  the  great  hairy  head 
cocked  itself  up  differently — the  eyes  stretching 
open  and  suddenly  filled  with  yellow-green  light, 
the  colour  of  squash-pulp  close  to  the  rind,  but  a 
transparent  light,  that  gathered  the  rays  of  the 
day  in  its  expiring  lucency,  and  held  their  own 
eyes — a  lidless  horror  lifted  from  its  belly.  The 
woman  must  have  seen  the  change  at  the  same 
instant,  for  her  cry  blended  with  the  voice  of 
Bellair.  As  one,  they  understood  that  this  was 
a'different  force  for  Fleury  to  meet — a  wiser,  more 
ancient  and  terrific  force,  from  the  bowels  of  the 
world  of  evil  possibly,  without  relation  to  Stack- 
house,  but  with  a  very  thrilling  relation  to  them. 

The  whole  face  had  a  different  look.  It  was 
rising  higher.  The  hands  were  braced  upon  the 
grating,  pushing  the  body  up.  They  were  accus 
tomed  to  the  loosed  havoc  of  bestiality  which 

[142] 


THE      OPEN      BOAT 

Stackhouse  had  left  upon  his  features — but  this 
that  looked  out  from  his  eyes  was  knit  and  intent. 

Fleury's  hand  groped  back. 

"It  will  not  answer  me,"  he  was  saying.  "This 
is  different.  It  will  not  obey  me.  Take  my  hand, 
Bellair.  .  .  .  Yes,  and  take  hers  with  the  other. 
We  must  drive  it  out." 

Weariness  more  than  death  was  in  the  speech. 
He  had  struggled  for  hours.  It  was  the  voice  of 
a  man  who  had  fought  to  his  soul's  end.  Bellair 
held  his  hand  and  the  woman's,  but  felt  himself 
the  betrayer.  This  had  come  for  him!  He  was 
the  prophet  lying  still  while  the  sailors  deliber 
ated.  They  must  cast  him  into  the  sea,  before 
this  thing  could  be  willed  into  quiescence.  Con 
centration  on  his  part  was  broken  by  this  con 
viction. 

The  body  of  Stackhouse  was  lifted  to  its  knees 
— the  different  face  looking  out  of  the  eyes.  They 
sat  before  it  like  terrified  children ;  the  eyes  found 
them  one  after  another,  steadily,  with  unearthly 
frigid  humour,  like  some  creative  force  of  evil, 
integrated  of  the  ages,  charged  with  intrepid  will, 
a  ruling  visitant  that  would  tarry  but  an  instant 
for  the  climax. 

It  was  not  human,  save  in  the  shape  and  fea 
ture  for  their  recognition;  its  difference  from  the 
human  was  its  frank  knowing  destructiveness. 
Humanity  is  mainly  unconscious  of  the  processes 
of  evil;  this  had  chosen.  This  was  of  the  pull 

[143] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 


of  the  earth,  and  knew  its  power.  It  seemed 
known  to  Bell  air  as  if  from  some  ancient  meet 
ing.  He  could  never  have  remembered,  how 
ever,  without  this  return.  It  was  devoid  of  sex, 
which  seemed  to  bring  to  him  some  old  deep 
problem  that  took  its  place  with  his  ineffable 
fear  of  the  presence. 

So  Bellair  sat  between  them,  holding  their 
hands,  but  powerless  to  help.  ...  It  was  higher, 
looking  out  of  the  eyes  of  the  body,  in  strange  solu 
tion  with  the  fallen  humanity  of  the  face  they 
knew.  And  Bellair  knew  he  was  responsible. 

"You  must  depart.  You  do  not  belong  here," 
a  voice  said.  Bellair  could  not  tell  if  it  were 
Fleury's  or  the  woman's  or  his  own.  It  may  have 
been  merely  a  thought. 

The  thing  had  uprisen  now.  It  lurched  in  the 
sway  of  the  boat.  Fleury  and  he  were  standing 
to  meet  the  body  that  hurled  itself  forward.  .  .  . 
Water  dashed  over  them.  They  were  beneath  the 
monster.  Bellair  felt  more  than  the  crush  of  the 
weight  of  flesh,  a  force  kindred  to  electricity,  but 
not  electric,  a  smothering  defiling  dynamics,  that 
despoiled  him  by  the  low,  cold  depth  of  its  vibra 
tion,  rather  than  by  the  fierce  fury  of  it.  Then 
he  thought  of  the  woman's  child.  It  came  to  him 
like  a  pure  gleam.  The  child  must  live.  The 
thought  was  very  real,  out  of  the  self,  but  not  for 
self.  ...  It  seemed  that  he  heard  the  heart  of 
Stackhouse  break,  and  the  demon  hiss  away. 

[144] 


THE     OPEN      BOAT 


Bellair  looked  up  from  the  bottom  of  the  boat. 
The  woman's  face  was  very  close,  his  face  be 
tween  her  hands. 

".  .  .  Yes,  come  back  to  us!"  she  was  saying. 
"Oh,  we  could  not  live  without  you •" 

It  did  not  seem  real  to  him  for  a  moment.  He 
turned  from  her  merciful  eyes.  Fleury  was  sit 
ting  there  in  the  centre,  holding  the  child  with 
hands  that  trembled.  The  boat  rode  lightly, 
though  water  lay  in  the  bottom.  He  turned  far 
ther.  Yes,  the  seat  in  the  stern  was  empty. 

"He  is  dead?"  Bellair  whispered. 

"Yes,"  she  answered. 

"And  we  did  not  kill  him,"  Fleury  added. 

"But  how  did  he  get  overside?" 

"You  helped,"  they  told  him. 

He  did  not  remember.    "And  the  child?" 

"The  little  Gleam  is  all  right.  All  is  well  with 
us,  Bellair." 

Something  of  the  encounter  returned  now.  "I 
do  not  belong  here  with  you,"  he  said.  "The 
thing — at  the  last — came  for  me " 

Then  he  realised  how  absurd  this  would  sound 
— as  if  some  ogre  had  come.  Yet  they  under 
stood. 

"I  thought  it  had  come  for  me,"  the  woman  an 
swered  quietly.  "I  said  that,  and  he "  she 

turned  with  a  smile  to  the  preacher,  " — and  he 
said  the  same — that  it  had  come  for  him.     We 

will  forget  that.     Something  freed  us " 

[145] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 

Bellair  turned  to  the  child. 

"It  was  the  little  Gleam  who  freed  us,"  Fleury 
said. 

"How  did  you  get  that  name4?"  Bellair  asked. 

"You  said  it." 

"How  long  have  I  been  lying  here?" 

"Ten  minutes." 

He  rested  a  moment  longer.  .  .  .  The  woman 
was  sane,  the  child  unhurt.  Stackhouse  was  dead, 
and  they  had  not  murdered  him.  It  was  the 
fourth  sunset.  .  .  .  Bellair  sat  up  and  turned  his 
eyes  to  the  sea. 

The  great  body  was  near.  It  would  not  sink. 
They  tried  to  row,  but  were  too  weak  to  pull 
far.  The  calm  sea  would  not  cover  it  from  their 
eyes.  .  .  .  Even  the  birds  did  not  come  to  it, 
and  there  was  no  tugging  from  the  deep. 

The  terrible  battle  of  the  day  had  left  them 
whimpering — drained  men,  in  the  pervading  calm 
of  the  sea,  under  the  dry  cloudless  heat  and  light 
of  the  sky.  Fleury  and  Bellair  looked  at  each 
other  and  their  eyes  said:  "We  did  not  murder 
him."  They  looked  again  and  found  the  woman 
saner  than  they.  They  turned  over  her  shoulder 
to  the  blotch  upon  the  sea.  It  floated  high,  drifted 
with  them.  They  could  not  speak  connectedly, 
but  longed  for  the  night.  .  „  .  At  last,  they  heard 
her  voice: 

"It  is  very  great  to  me  to  know  that  there  are 
such  men  in  the  world.  As  a  little  girl  in  New 

[146] 


THE      OPEN      BOAT 


Zealand  I  used  to  picture  such  heroes — such  broth 
ers  and  heroes.  I  came  to  doubt  it  afterward,  and 
that  was  evil  in  me.  I  see  now  that  the  dream 
was  true " 

They  listened  like  two  little  boys. 

"See,  the  cool  is  coming!"  she  added.  "The 
child  is  glad,  too.  To-night,  we  will  talk!" 

"You  will  tell  us  a  story*?"  Fleury  said. 

"Yes,  when  it  is  darker.  It  is  all  so  safe  and 
quiet  now.  We  are  all  one." 

That  meant  something  to  Bellair.  Later  when 
it  was  dark,  and  they  had  supped,  he  said: 

"It's  good — the  way  you  count  me  in,  but  you 
shouldn't.  I  don't  belong,  much  as  I'd  like  to.  I 
misjudged  you  at  first.  I  misjudged  Fleury — 
and  him — ; — "  he  pointed  over  her  shoulder  to 
the  sea. 

"It  will  be  gone  in  the  morning,"  she  whis 
pered,  patting  his  hand.  "We  are  three — and  the 
child." 

"Three,  and  God  bless  you,"  said  Fleury. 
"Three  and  the  little  Gleam " 

"The  Gleam,"  the  woman  repeated,  holding  the 
child  closer.  "I  love  that." 

"We  are  three  and  we  follow  the  Gleam." 

7 

Fleury  took  the  child.    The  Faraway  Woman  sat 

straight  in  her  seat,  so  that  Bellair  wondered  at  her 

strength.    Her  strength  came  to  him.    The  deeps 

[147] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 


of  his  listening  were  opened  to  her  low  voice.  The 
story  came  to  them  with  all  the  colour  and  contour 
of  her  thought-pictures — a  richness  from  the  un 
spoken  words  which  cannot  be  given  again: 

"It's  about  a  little  girl  whom  I  will  call  Olga," 
she  said.  "That  is  really  her  name,  and  the  story 
is  the  little  girl's  truly.  I  shall  only  tell  part  of 
it  to-night,  for  it  is  long  and  I  would  only  tell  you 
the  happy  part — to-night. 

"Olga's  father  and  mother  and  the  other  chil 
dren  lived  in  a  low  house  by  the  open  road  that 
led  to  Hamilton.  He  raised  sheep  for  a  living 
on  the  rolling  pasture-lands  near  the  Waikata 
river,  a  hundred  miles  south  of  Auckland.  .  .  . 
Yes,  Olga  was  born  in  New  Zealand — the  young 
est  of  a  houseful  of  sisters.  They  belong  more 
to  the  latter  part  of  the  story  which  I  shall  not 
tell  to-night — just  the  happy  part  to-night.  .  .  . 
The  first  thing  that  Olga  remembered  as  belong 
ing  to  the  Great  Subject  was  spoken  by  her  father 
one  evening  when  they  were  all  together  at  their 
supper  of  bread  and  milk: 

"'.  .  .  One  never  knows.  It  is  best  not  to 
turn  away  any  stranger,  not  even  if  he  is  shabby 
and  ill-looking.  I  heard  of  a  house  where  a 
stranger  was  turned  away.  They  were  not  bad 
people,  but  supper  was  over,  the  things  put  aside, 
and  the  woman  was  very  tired.  The  stranger  was 
taken  in  at  the  next  house,  and  in  the  morning 
he  seemed  different  to  them — not  shabby  or  ill- 

[148] 


THE      OPEN      BOAT 


looking  at  all,  but  rested  and  laughing,  with 
bright  lights  about  his  hair.  Always  afterward, 
that  house  was  blest,  but  the  other  house  went  on 
in  its  misery  and  labour.  One  never  knows.  It 
is  best  not  to  turn  any  stranger  away.' 

"Now  Olga  understood  that  from  beginning  to 
end.  Many  times  before  she  had  tried  to  follow 
the  talk  at  the  table,  but  the  words  would  come 
too  fast,  and  she  would  fall  away  to  her  own  man 
ner  of  seeing  things.  This  talk  simplified  many 
matters  for  her,  and  seemed  greatly  to  be  ap 
proved.  So  in  the  evenings  she  began  to  watch 
for  her  guest  up  the  long  level  road  that  led  to 
Hamilton.  All  that  summer  Olga  thought  of  it 
and  watched,  though  she  was  very  little  and  only 
five.  Sometimes  when  it  was  not  yet  dark  she 
would  venture  forth  a  few  steps  and  stare  up  the 
long  road,  until  the  house  of  their  distant  but 
nearest  neighbour  was  all  blurred  in  the  night. 
Just  behind  her  cottage  in  the  other  direction,  the 
road  dipped  into  a  ravine,  and  the  trees  grew  up 
from  it,  shutting  off  the  distance.  No  place  could 
be  more  wonderful  than  the  ravine  at  midday,  for 
the  shades  were  quickened  with  birds,  bees,  flow 
ers  and  much  beside  that  only  Olga  saw,  but  its 
enchantment  was  too  keen  for  the  evening,  and 
the  night  came  there  very  quickly. 

"Her  Guest  would  never  come  from  the  ravine- 
way,  but  from  the  long,  open  road — Olga  was 
sure  of  this.  Yet  when  stopping  to  think,  she  be- 

[149] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 


came  afraid  he  would  not  be  allowed  to  pass  the 
neighbour's  house.  Their  little  Paul  was  her  fre 
quent  playmate,  and  Paul's  father  and  mother 
were  most  good  and  hospitable  people,  the  last  on 
the  Hamilton  road  to  let  a  stranger  go  by,  with 
out  food  and  shelter.  And  Paul  would  be  look 
ing,  for  he  was  almost  always  interested  in  her 
things.  .  .  .  But  perhaps  they  would  be  in  at 
supper  and  not  see  the  stranger;  or  perhaps  he 
would  not  want  to  stop  there,  but  would  know 
that  she  was  watching.  She  made  very  certain 
that  he  would  not  get  by  her  house  unobserved. 

"Spring  had  come  again.  The  pale  blue  he- 
paticas  were  peeping  into  bloom.  There  was  one 
day  that  ended  in  Olga's  most  wonderful  night. 
The  sun  had  gone  down,  but  not  the  light.  The 
sky  was  crowded  with  rich  gold  like  the  breast  of 
the  purple  martin — flickerings  of  beautiful  light 
in  the  air,  as  if  little  balls  of  happiness  were  burst 
ing  of  themselves.  The  shadows  were  soft  on  the 
long  road;  the  tiles  of  the  neighbour's  low  house 
were  like  beaten  gold,  and  the  perfume  of  the 
hyacinths  flooded  everywhere  into  the  silence.  All 
that  heaven  could  ever  be  was  in  that  broad  splen 
dour  and  sweetness — the  ravine  a  soft  purple  still 
ness  behind,  and  a  faint  mist  of  red  falling  in  the 
distant  gold. 

"He  was  coming.  She  knew  him  for  The  Guest 
from  afar.  The  neighbours'  house  was  already 
dimmed,  but  the  stranger  was  clear,  so  that  she 

[150] 


THE      OPEN      BOAT 


knew  he  had  passed  their  door.  She  ran  forth 
to  meet  him,  and  no  one  called  to  her  from  be 
hind.  It  seemed  all  made  for  her — the  evening 
so  sweet  and  vast  and  perfect.  One  of  her  little 
loose  shoes  came  off  as  she  hurried,  but  she  did 
not  stop.  The  single  one  made  her  running 
clumsy,  so  she  kicked  that  free  too.  He  must  not 
think  she  was  a  little  lame  girl.  .  .  .  He  was  far 
ther  than  she  thought;  she  had  never  come  so  far 
alone  in  the  evening.  And  yet  how  clearly  she 
could  see  him.  .  .  . 

"He  must  be  very  tired,  for  sometimes  he  was 
on  one  side  of  the  road,  and  sometimes  on  the 
other.  He  was  quite  old,  and  his  step  unsteady, 
yet  he  carried  his  cane  and  did  not  use  it.  ... 
His  head  was  uncovered.  Now  she  knew  why  his 
steps  were  so  unsteady.  He  was  looking  upward 
as  he  walked — upward  and  around  quite  joyously, 
the  glow  of  the  sky  upon  his  white  beard  and  hair 
— so  that  he  did  not  see  her  coming,  and  her  bare 
feet  were  silent  on  the  road. 

"She  felt  very  little  as  she  touched  his  cane. 

"  'Won't  you  come  to  our  house  to  rest?  Oh, 
please ' 

"  'Yes,  yes/  he  answered,  but  did  not  look 
down. 

"  'Our  house  is  near — won't  you  come?'  she 
asked  again,  and  turning,  she  was  surprised  how 
far  it  was,  but  not  afraid,  and  no  one  called  to 
her. 

[151] 


JLOT     &     COMPANY 

"  'Oh,  yes,'  he  answered. 

"  'But  I  am  down  here ' 

"  'Bless  me — are  you*?' 

"He  did  not  seem  to  see  her  very  well,  but  tried 
to  follow  her  voice,  his  eyes  looking  past  her,  and 
to  the  side,  his  great  hands  groping  for  her  gently. 
Olga  spoke  again  and  touched  his  hands.  Then 
he  really  saw  her,  and  she  sighed  with  relief,  be 
cause  his  eyes  filled  with  the  gentlest  love  she  had 
ever  seen — seemed  to  rest  upon  her  and  enclose  her 
at  the  same  time.  The  gladdest  smile  of  welcome 
had  come  to  his  face.  Both  her  hands  were  in 
his  groping  ones,  but  now  she  turned  and  led  him. 
There  was  silence  as  they  walked,  and  Olga  asked : 

"  'But  what  were  you  looking  for — you  were 
looking  up,  you  know1?' 

"'Was  I,   dear?' 

"  'Yes,  and  what  were  you  looking  for?' 

"  T  was  looking  for  my  mother,'  he  said. 

"Olga  thought  how  old  she  must  be,  and  she 
wanted  to  cry.  .  .  .  Her  mother  made  the 
stranger  very  welcome,  and  her  father  stood  back 
against  the  wall  smiling  in  a  way  that  she  always 
remembered,  and  without  lighting  his  pipe  until 
after  the  stranger  had  finished  his  meal.  There 
was  golden  butter  and  the  dark  bread  that  is  the 
life  of  the  peasants,  a  pitcher  of  fresh  milk  and 
a  bite  of  that  cheese  which  is  brought  forth  only 
on  Sundays  or  holidays.  They  pressed  him  to  eat 
more,  saying  that  he  must  be  in  need  of  food  after 

[152] 


THE     OPEN      BOAT 

his  journey,  but  it  was  very  little  that  he  really 
took.  He  smiled  and  looked  with  peace  from 
face  to  face,  but  Olga  had  pulled  her  stool  back 
into  the  shadows,  for  she  did  not  wish  to  intrude. 
He  had  not  seen  so  much  of  the  others. 

"A  chair  was  brought  to  the  hearth,  for  it  was 
now  dark  and  there  was  a  little  fire  burning  against 
the  damp  coolness  of  evening.  They  waited  in 
vain  for  him  to  speak.  It  was  as  if  he  had  come 
home.  To  Olga  he  was  intensely  memorable  sit 
ting  there  in  the  firelight.  The  others  would  draw 
near,  and  he  leaned  forward  and  looked  into  their 
faces  smilingly,  but  it  was  not  the  same.  .  .  . 
Now  he  was  looking  and  looking  around  the  room. 
He  found  her,  and  held  out  his  hands.  She  heard 
her  mother  say,  'This  is  Olga's  guest/ 

"She  had  not  believed  his  old  arms  could  be 
so  strong.  With  one  hand  he  held  her,  while 
the  other  patted  her  shoulder  softly,  slowly, — as 
if  he  had  everything  he  desired.  All  about  her 
was  the  firelight  and  the  strange  joyous  whiteness 
of  him — his  throat  and  collar  and  beard  all  lus 
trous  white.  In  his  arms  there  was  something  she 
had  never  known,  even  from  her  mother — a  deep 
and  limitless  joy,  as  if  the  world  were  all  good, 
and  nothing  could  possibly  happen  that  would 
not  be  the  right  good  thing. 

"Then  she  became  afraid  her  breast  would 
burst,  for  the  happiness  was  more  and  more.  It 
had  to  do  with  the  future,  such  a  far  distance  of 

[153] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 

seeing,  all  rising  and  increasingly  good — until 
Olga  had  to  slip  down  from  his  knees,  because  the 
happiness  in  and  through  her  was  more  than  she 
could  bear. 

"  'I  will  come  back,'  she  said  hoarsely. 

"Outdoors  she  waited  until  the  stars  had 
steadied  and  were  like  the  stars  she  knew,  for  they 
had  been  huge  and  blazing  at  first;  then  she  re 
turned  and  he  stretched  out  his  hands  to  her,  and 
she  heard  her  mother  say,  'Surely,  this  is  Olga's 
guest.' 

"She  did  not  remember  how  she  got  into  her 
little  bed.  She  heard  the  birds  in  the  vines,  and 
it  was  golden  day  when  she  awoke.  Suddenly 
she  knew  that  she  had  slept  too  long,  that  she 
would  find  him  gone.  .  .  .  She  thought  of  her 
little  brown  shoes  on  the  road,  but  some  one  must 
have  brought  them  in,  for  there  they  were  by  the 
bed.  .  .  .  He  was  no  longer  in  the  house,  but  she 
did  not  weep.  There  had  been  so  much  of  won 
der  and  beauty.  She  looked  into  her  mother's 
face,  but  did  not  ask.  The  mother  smiled,  as  if 
waiting  for  her  to  speak.  The  other  children  must 
have  been  told,  for  they  did  not  speak. 

"A  thousand  times  Olga  wished  that  she  had 
awakened  in  time;  often  it  came  to  her  that  she 
had  not  done  all  she  could  for  her  guest,  butt 
there  was  never  real  misery  about  it,  and  she  was 
never  quite  the  same  after  that  perfect  night.  She 
thought  it  out  bit  by  bit  every  day,  but  it  was 
[154] 


THE     OPEN      BOAT 


long,  long  afterward  before  she  spoke,  and  this 
was  to  an  elder  sister,  who — it  was  most  strange 
and  pitiful  to  Olga — seemed  to  have  forgotten 
it  all " 

The  Faraway  Woman  reached  for  the  child, 
and  held  it  close  and  strangely.  Fleury  offered 
her  water,  but  she  took  just  a  sup  and  bade  them 
finish  the  cup.  "That  was  the  happy  part,"  she 
added  in  a  whisper,  her  back  moving  slowly  to 
and  fro,  as  she  held  the  child  high.  "It  might  all 
have  been  happier,  but  Olga  was  not  quite  like 
the  others.  They  did  not  tell  her  what  they  knew, 
and  Olga  never  could  tell  them  what  she  felt. 
Another  time — some  happy  time — I  will  tell  you, 
who  are  so  good — you  will  understand  the  rest  of 
the  story " 

"Would  you  tell  us  if  Olga's  guest  came 
again?"  the  preacher  asked. 

"Yes,  he  came  again,"  she  said  softly. 

Bellair  sat  still  for  several  moments.  Then  he 
leaned  forward  and  touched  the  child's  dress. 

8 

They  made  an  appearance  of  drinking  (with 
a  cracker  in  hand)  at  midnight,  but  it  was 
for  the  sake  of  the  woman — a  sup  of  tepid  water. 
The  long  night  sailed  by.  Slowly  the  moon  sank 
— that  dry  moon,  brick-red  and  bulbous,  as  it 
entered  the  western  sea.  All  was  still  in  the  little 
boat.  Bellair  was  ready  to  meet  his  suffering. 

[155] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 


He  could  not  sleep — because  the  woman  was 
near.  That  was  the  night  that  her  quality  fixed 
itself  for  all  time  exemplary  in  his  heart. 

The  little  story  had  revealed  to  him  a  new 
sanctuary.  He  loved  it  and  the  little  Gleam;  as 
for  that,  he  loved  Fleury,  too.  It  was  a  strange 
resolving  of  all  separateness  that  had  come  to  him 
from  these  friends.  More  than  ever  thrilling  it 
had  come,  with  Stackhouse  out  of  the  boat  and 
since  the  story  had  been  made  his. 

She  had  been  frightened  by  his  loss  of  con 
sciousness  at  the  end  of  the  battle.  He  had  awak 
ened  looking  into  her  eyes.  He  scarcely  dared  to 
recall  what  she  had  said  in  her  anxiety,  but  it 
was  an  extraordinary  matter  of  value.  What 
a  mother  she  was;  and  what  a  little  girl  lived  in 
that  story,  and  now!  .  .  .  That  little  girl  was 
still  in  her  heart.  The  recent  days  in  the  open 
boat  had  not  spoiled  her;  nor  the  recent  years  of 
loneliness  and  tragedy.  Out  of  it  all  had  come  cer 
tain  perfect  works — the  babe  in  her  arms,  her  own 
fortitude  and  fearlessness  of  death;  the  little  girl 
still  in  her  eyes  and  heart.  Bellair  saw  that  a  man 
loves  the  child  in  a  woman,  quite  as  much  as  a 
woman  loves  the  boy  in  a  man.  .  .  .  She  had  said 
that  Fleury  and  he  were  brothers  and  heroes.  He 
knew  better  in  his  own  case.  Still  she  had  said 
it,  adding  that  the  discovery  of  such  men  to  her 
was  a  part  of  the  very  bloom  of  life.  .  .  . 

Bellair  was  not  thinking  the  personal  relation 
[156] 


THE     OPEN      BOAT 


now.  Fleury  and  she  were  mated  in  his  own 
thoughts.  From  the  beginning,  this  was  so;  and 
yet  he  did  not  ask  more.  He  had  come  to  believe 
from  their  glorious  humanity  (so  strange  to  him 
and  unpromising  in  the  beginning) — that  the 
world  was  crowded  with  latent  values  which,  once 
touched  and  quickened  into  life,  would  make  it 
a  paradise. 

That  was  the  substance  of  the  whole  matter. 
He  must  never  forget  it.  The  human  values 
which  he  had  met  in  these  were  secret  in  thou 
sands,  perhaps  in  millions,  of  hearts,  and  needed 
only  breaking  open  by  stress  and  revelation — to 
bring  the  millennium  to  old  Mother  Earth,  and 
open  her  skies  for  the  plan  of  joy.  Bellair  im 
pressed  this  upon  his  mind  again,  so  he  would 
not  forget — then  fell  asleep. 

She  was  first  awake  in  the  distance-clearing 
light.  She  arose  carefully,  so  as  not  to  awaken 
the  men  and  the  child,  and  stared  long  in  every 
quarter.  There  was  no  ship,  no  land,  no  cloud; 
and  yet  a  trace  of  happiness  on  her  thin  face,  as 
she  sat  down.  Fleury  was  rousing.  She  had  ex 
pected  that;  for  through  their  strange  sympathy 
several  times  before  he  had  awakened  with  her, 
or  soon  after.  She  bent  forward  and  whispered 
a  good-morning,  and  added: 

"It  is  gone " 

"Surely?" 

"Yes." 

[157] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 


"Thank  God." 

The  preacher  breathed  deeply,  contemplated 
their  faces  one  after  another.  From  Bellair  lying 
in  the  stern,  his  eyes  turned  significantly  to  the 
woman's,  and  his  own  lit  with  zeal.  .  .  .  Bellair 
was  on  the  borderland  then,  coming  up  through 
the  fathoms  of  dream.  Already  he  felt  the  heat; 
the  sun  had  imparted  its  ache  to  his  eyes.  The 
three  were  half-blinded  by  the  long  brilliance  of 
the  cloudless  days  on  the  sea.  .  .  .  Bellair  was 
trying  to  speak,  but  could  not  because  of  the  parch 
in  his  throat.  Moreover,  no  thoughts  could  hold 
him — not  even  Bessie.  She  came  to  mind,  pink 
and  ineffectual,  lost  in  her  childish  things.  She 
had  failed  this  way  before.  .  .  . 

There  was  a  cup  to  his  lips.  He  smelled  the 
water,  and  wanted  it  as  he  wanted  decency  and 
truth — as  he  wanted  to  be  brave  and  fit  to  be  one 
of  the  three.  It  almost  crazed  him,  the  way  he 
wanted  it — but  it  would  be  taking  it  from  her. 
All  the  violence  of  one-pointed  will  was  against 
the  cup.  He  pushed  it  away. 

"Don't,  Bellair,"  said  Fleury.  ".You'll  spill  it. 
Drink " 

"I  won't.    Take  it  away." 

"You  must  drink.    It  is  yours." 

"Yes,  he  must  drink,"  said  the  woman. 

Bellair  sat  up.  Fleury  was  holding  the  cup  to 
his  lips. 

"It  is  gone  from  behind,"  said  the  preacher. 

[158] 


THE      OPEN      BOAT 


"Drink  your  water.  I  have.  I  will  speak  to  you 
after  you  drink." 

He  stared  at  them,  and  at  the  open  sea  behind 
her.  Then  it  came  to  him,  as  if  from  Fleury's 
mind,  to  obey.  .  .  .  Fleury  then  served  the 
woman.  They  ate  a  cracker  together;  at  least  it 
seemed  so.  Then  Fleury  spoke: 

"We  have  the  child  to  serve — that  is  our  first 
thought;  therefore  we  must  think  of  the  child's 
mother  first.  As  for  her  other  part,  as  our  com 
panion,  she  will  be  one  with  us,  of  course.  We 
have  been  here  five  full  days,  and  we  have  not 
been  allowed,  by  the  presence  of  him  who  is  gone 
— and  may  God  rest  and  keep  that — we  have  not 
been  allowed  to  do  the  best  we  could  in  this  great 
privilege  of  being  together  and  drawing  close  to 
reality.  Many  have  gone  without  food  and  drink 
for  ten  days — to  come  close  to  God.  There  is 
food  here  and  water — to  keep  us  in  life.  This  is 
what  I  would  say:  We  must  change  our  point 
of  view." 

He  paused,  and  their  eyes  turned  from  one  to 
another.  The  child's  face  seemed  washed  in  the 
magic  of  morning.  The  preacher  added : 

"We  must  cease  to  regard  ourselves  as  suffer 
ing,  as  creatures  in  want,  as  starving  or  dying  of 
thirst.  Rather,  as  three  souls  knit,  each  to  the 
other,  who  have  entered  upon  a  pilgrimage  to 
gether — a  period  of  simple  austerity  to  cleanse  and 
purify  our  bodies  the  better  to  meet  and  sense 

[159] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 

reality,  and  to  approach  with  a  finer  sensitiveness, 
than  we  have  ever  known — the  mystery  and  min 
istry  of  God.  ...  So  we  are  not  suffering,  Bel- 
lair.  We  are  not  suffering — " 

He  turned  to  the  woman. 

"We  are  chosen  ones.  This  is  our  wilderness. 
When  we  are  ready — God  will  speak  to  us.  We 
are  very  far  from  the  poor  needs  of  the  body — for 
this  is  the  time  and  period  of  our  consecration. 
God  bless  you  both — and  the  Gleam." 

9 

It  was  the  seventh  evening,  the  cool  coming  in. 
Bellair  could  not  feel  his  body  below  his 
lungs,  unless  he  stopped  to  think.  The  child 
was  on  his  knee,  his  hands  holding  it.  The  little 
face  was  browned,  but  very  clear  and  bright.  Bel- 
lair's  hands  against  the  child's  dress  were  claw- 
like  to  his  own  eyes,  like  the  hands  of  a  black 
man  very  aged.  He  could  move  his  fingers  when 
he  thought  of  it,  but  he  did  not  know  if  they 
moved  unless  he  watched.  The  effort  of  steadying 
the  child  he  did  not  feel  in  his  arms,  but  in  his 
shoulders.  It  was  like  the  ache  in  his  eyes.  No 
tears  would  come,  but  all  the  smart  of  tears'  be 
ginnings;  and  the  least  little  thing  would  bring 
it  about.  He  had  to  stop  between  words  and 
wait  for  his  throat  to  subside — in  the  simplest 
saying. 

He  saw  everything  clearly.  The  open  boat  was 
[160] 


THE      OPEN      BOAT 


like  a  seat  lifted  a  trifle  above  the  runways  of 
the  world.  He  could  see  them,  as  one  in  the 
swarming  paths  beneath  could  never  hope  to  see. 
It  was  all  good,  but  the  pain  and  the  pressure 
of  them  all !  ...  Bessie  Break  in  pain  and  pres 
sure;  Davy  Acton  in  the  hard  heavy  air;  Broad- 
well  who  was  trying  to  be  a  man  at  Lot  &  Com 
pany's;  the  old  boarding-house  woman  who  had 
forgotten  everything  but  her  rooms — her  rooms 
moving  with  shadows  whom  she  never  saw  clearly 
and  never  hoped  to  understand — shadows  that 
flitted,  her  accounts  never  in  order,  her  rooms 
never  in  order.  .  .  .  There  had  been  people  in 
there  whom  he  never  saw; — one  girlish  voice  that 
awakened  in  the  afternoon  and  sang  softly,  a 
most  subdued  and  impossible  singing.  She  worked 
nights  at  a  telephone  switch-board — the  night- 
desires  of  the  great  city  passing  through  her — and 
she  sang  to  the  light  of  noon  when  it  came  to  the 
cage.  .  .  .  Sunday  afternoons  when  it  was  fine, 
a  bearded  man  emerged  from  a  back-room, 
emerged  with  a  cane  and  cigarette  case.  Always 
on  the  front  steps  he  lit  the  cigarette.  .  .  . 

Bellair  now  couldn't  smoke.  .  .  .  Once  there 
had  been  moaning  in  a  lower  back  room,  moan 
ing  night  and  morning  from  a  woman.  He  was 
not  sure  if  it  were  the  millinery  woman,  or  the 
one  who  worked  in  Kratz's.  The  moaning  stopped 
and  as  he  passed  through  the  hall,  he  heard  a 
doctor  say  to  the  landlady: 
[161] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 

"King  Alcohol." 

Just  that.  .  .  .  He  saw  the  millinery  woman 
afterward,  so  it  wasn't  she.  .  .  .  The  air  in  the 
old  halls  was  of  a  character  all  its  own.  It  was 
stronger  than  the  emanations  from  any  of  the 
rooms.  The  separate  currents  lost  their  identity 
like  streams  in  the  ocean,  like  souls  in  Brahma. 
.  .  .  How  strangely  apart  he  had  kept  all  that 
five  years!  A  face  not  seen  before  in  the  halls, 
and  he  did  not  know  if  it  were  a  newcomer  or 
old.  So  few  came  to  the  board  to  dine — the 
chorus-woman  from  the  Hippodrome,  who  came 
up  nightly  from  the  water.  .  .  .  He  saw  the  view 
from  his  window — over  the  roofs  and  areas.  It 
was  a  wall  of  windows — dwellers  in  the  canyon 
sides;  boxes  of  food  hanging  out,  clothing  out  to 
freshen  itself  in  the  dingy  and  sluggish  airs — the 
coloured  stockings  and  the  faces  that  looked  out. 
Everything  was  monotonous  but  the  faces — faces 
grim  and  sharp — faces  of  kittens  and  bulls  and 
rabbits  and  foxes,  faces  of  ferrets,  sleek  faces,  torn 
faces,  red  and  brutal,  white  and  wasted  faces; 
faces  of  food  and  drink,  faces  of  hunger  and  fear ; 
the  drugged  look;  few  tears  but  much  dry  yearn 
ing,  and  not  a  face  of  joy. 

There  was  no  joyousness  and  peace  in  the  lower 
runways,  but  pain  and  heavy  pressures.  .  .  .  Bel- 
lair  saw  himself  moving  among  those  halls  again, 
not  a  stranger,  but  with  a  hand,  a  smile,  a  dollar. 
No  one  would  moan  for  days  without  his  knowing. 

[162] 


THE     OPEN      BO  AT 


He  would  find  day-work  for  the  little  telephone 
miss,  and  send  orders  for  hats  to  the  milliner.  He 
would  awaken  that  shadow  of  all  the  shadows,  the 
landlady,  with  kindness  and  healing.  He  would 
call  across  the  windowed  cavern.  .  .  .  They 
would  say,  "Come  over  and  help  us,"  and  he  would 
rush  down  stairs,  and  around  into  other  streets,  and 
faces  there  would  be  ready  to  show  him.  He  saw 
it  all  clearly,  such  as  it  was,  but  no  facts.  They 
would  not  call  to  him.  They  would  not  be 
healed.  They  would  take  a  dollar,  but  say  he 
was  cracked.  He  could  move  about  passing  forth 
a  dollar  here  and  there — that  was  all.  They 
would  welcome  him  at  Lot  &  Company's  if  he 
passed  it  out  quietly  enough.  The  dollar  would 
go  into  the  Sproxley  system  and  emerge  unbroken 
to  the  firm  itself,  there  to  be  had  and  held  and 
marked  down  in  the  house  of  Lot — Jabez, 
Nathan,  Eben,  Seth,  each  a  part,  the  jovial  Mr. 
Rawter  a  small  but  visible  part — one  hundred 
Sproxley-measured  cents.  .  .  .  Davy  Acton 
wouldn't  get  one,  nor  Broadwell,  nor  the  girls  up 
stairs.  The  firm  would  not  encourage  him  pass 
ing  beyond  the  cage  of  Mr.  Sproxley.  .  .  .  There 
were  many  who  wanted  food  and  drink  and  hats — 

hats " 

He  was  with  Bessie  Break  now  .  .  .  that 
night  and  the  kiss.  It  was  another  life.  .  .  .  He 
went  back  to  those  who  needed  food — New  York 
so  full  of  food.  Then  he  felt  the  heavy  wallet 

[163] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 


against  his  breast — one  paper  in  there  would  fill 
the  open  boat  with  food.  .  .  . 
"My  God,"  he  said. 

He  didn't  try  to  explain.  .  .  .  Sometimes  he 
fell  into  a  little  dream  as  he  sat.  Once  he  was 
drinking  at  the  narrow  throat  of  a  green  bottle, — 
a  magic  bottle  whose  base  was  in  the  sea,  and 
the  trickle  that  passed  through  was  freshened 
drop  by  drop.  But  it  was  a  trick  like  all  else  in 
the  world  and  the  drops  passed  with  agonising 
slowness.  He  came  to,  sucking  hard  upon  his 
brass  key,  his  mouth  ulcered  from  it.  ...  There 
were  times  in  the  long  days  that  he  hungered  for 
the  stars  almost  as  for  drink;  times  in  the  night 
when  the  stars  bored  him  like  some  man-pageantry 
that  he  had  seen  too  much  of;  times  when  the 
thought  of  God  was  less  than  the  thought  of 
water;  and  times  when  the  faith  and  the  glory  of 
the  spirit  of  the  world  made  thirst  a  thing  to 
laugh  at,  and  death  whimsical  and  insignificant. 
.  .  .  Sometimes  in  the  night,  he  fancied  the 
woman  was  Bessie  Break.  It  would  come  like  a 
little  suspicion  first  hardly  stirring  his  faculties; 
finally  it  would  be  real — that  the  singing  girl 
was  there,  all  but  her  song.  He  would  sit  up  rub 
bing  his  eyes  in  rebellion.  Once  he  had  spoken 
to  be  sure. 

"Yes,  it  is  I,"  she  said  huskily,  and  the  voice 
was  not  Bessie  Break's. 

[164] 


THE     OPEN      BOAT 


1O 

They  did  not  speak  of  ships.  Through  the 
wakeful  night  hours  they  watched  for  the 
lights  of  ships,  but  they  did  not  speak  of  vigils. 
Their  eyes  were  straining  for  uncharted  shores 
during  the  days,  but  they  did  not  speak  of 
land;  nor  of  rain,  though  they  watched  pas 
sionately  the  change  and  movement  of  wind  and 
cloud. 

It  is  true  that  they  suffered  less  in  the  days  that 
followed  the  passing  of  Stackhouse.  The  under 
world  was  gone  from  the  seat  in  the  stem;  sun 
light  and  sea  air  had  cleansed  it  from  the  boat. 
They  were  weaker,  but  pangs  of  thirst  were 
weaker,  too.  Small  pieces  of  metal  in  their 
mouths  kept  the  saliva  trickling.  The  real  differ 
ence  was  an  exaltation  which  even  Bellair  shared 
at  times,  and  which  had  come  to  them  the  fifth 
morning  with  Fleury's  talk,  and  with  refining 
intensity  since. 

The  child  was  well;  his  imperative  founts  still 
flowing.  She  was  pure  mother;  it  was  the  child 
that  was  nourished  first,  not  her  own  body.  She 
was  first  in  the  passion  for  his  preservation.  In 
deed,  she  would  have  told  them  at  once  had  any 
change  threatened  him.  But  she  was  the  soul  of 
the  fasting  too;  the  austerity  of  it  found  deep 
sanction  within  her;  and  there  were  moments  in 
which  she  bewildered  Bellair,  for  she  became 

[165] 


LOT      &     COMPANY 


bright  with  the  vitality  which  is  above  the  need 
of  bread. 

Fleury  talked  of  God,  as  Stackhouse  had  talked 
of  death.  Indeed,  there  was  a  contrasting  intoxi 
cation  in  the  days  and  nights  of  the  preacher,  but 
one  without  hideous  reaction. 

"There  comes  a  moment,"  he  said,  "when  I  am 
alone — when  you  two  are  asleep — that  I  feel  the 
weakness.  I  drink  and  eat — perhaps  more  than 
my  share.  But  when  we  are  all  together — sitting 
here  as  now,  talking  and  sustaining  one  another 
• — oh,  it  seems  I  was  never  so  happy." 

Bellair  suspected  that  this  talk  of  lapses  into 
abandonment  while  others  slept  was  an  effort  to 
make  their  minds  easy  on  the  subject  of  his  share. 
Both  the  Mother  and  Bellair  doubted  this;  it 
preyed  upon  them.  In  the  main  they  were  one 
solution,  each  separate  quality  of  their  individual 
ism  cast  into  a  common  pool  for  the  sustaining 
of  a  trinity. 

"It  changes  the  whole  order,"  Fleury  declared. 
"Why,  whole  crowds  have  died  of  hunger — in 
half  the  number  of  days  that  holy  men  and  women 
have  fasted  as  a  mere  incident  of  their  practice 
toward  self-mastery.  This  is  our  consecration." 

Bellair  found  it  true.  He  had  ceased  to  mar 
vel  at  himself.  Deep  reconstruction  was  advanced 
within  him;  and  a  strange  loyalty  and  endurance 
prospered  from  the  new  foundations.  If  this  were 
self-hypnosis — very  well ;  if  madness — very  well, 

£166] 


THE     OPEN      BO  AT 


too;  at  least,  it  was  good  to  possess,  seven,  eight, 
nine  days  in  an  open  boat,  on  a  one-fifth  ration 
of  water  and  food.  To  Bellair,  who  felt  himself 
inferior  to  the  others,  it  appeared  that  they  al 
ready  lived  what  he  was  thrillingly  thinking  out. 
He  remembered  his  first  thoughts  of  them — in  the 
cold  worldly  manner  of  a  fellow-traveller.  It  was 
almost  as  far  as  a  man's  emotion  can  swing,  from 
what  he  thought  of  them  now.  Before  God,  he 
believed  he  was  right  now,  and  wrong  then.  Cer 
tainly  he  would  test  it  out,  if  he  lived  to  move 
among  men  again. 

He  thought  often  about  the  child's  voice — at 
the  moment  that  the  heart  of  Stackhouse  broke — 
as  the  point  of  his  turning  and  salvation.  This 
furnished  a  clue  to  many  things,  though  he  did 
not  miss  the  fact  that  the  world  would  smile  at 
his  credulity  in  accepting  such  a  dispensation  as 
real.  The  world  would  say  that  he  had  been 
driven  to  far  distances  of  illusion  by  thirst  and 
hunger;  in  fact,  that  anything  which  he  had  seen, 
other  than  the  original  entity  in  the  eyes  of  Stack- 
house,  was  a  part  of  the  illusion.  Bellair  con 
sidered  this,  and  also  that  in  every  instance  of 
late  in  which  he  had  held  the  world's  point  of 
view  he  had  been  proven  wrong.  He  granted 
the  world  its  rights  to  think  as  it  chose,  but  ac 
cepted  the  dispensation. 

There  had  been  good  and  evil  within  him.  The 
balance  had  turned  in  favour  of  the  good,  with 

[167] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 


that  cry.  It  had  turned  from  the  self.  The  pur 
pose  of  the  Enterer  had  been  to  keep  him  in  the 
self.  It  had  come  from  the  unfathomed  depths 
of  evil — that  purpose  and  the  devil  which  he 
saw.  Bellair  had  heard  repeatedly  that  some 
such  dweller  appeared  to  each  man  who  makes 
an  abrupt  turn  from  the  life  of  flesh  to  the  life 
of  the  spirit.  Each  of  the  three  had  seen  some 
thing  foreign  in  the  eyes  of  Stackhouse.  It  is 
true  they  had  not  talked  of  it;  possibly  to  each 
it  was  different  in  its  deadliness;  perhaps  theirs 
was  not  the  demon  he  saw,  since  Fleury  and  the 
woman  were  much  farther  on  the  way  than  he, 
but  they  had  been  good  enough  to  share  responsi 
bility  for  the  visitation.  Indeed,  the  Faraway 
Woman  could  not  have  been  acting,  since  a  cry 
came  from  her  the  instant  it  appeared. 

This  he  loved  to  study :  that  his  thought  of  the 
child  had  balanced  the  whole  issue  against  the 
intruder;  that  something  within  him  had  brought 
that  saving  grace  of  selflessness  out  of  chaos.  It 
was  a  squeak,  he  invariably  added,  but  it  had 
shown  him  enough,  opening  the  way.  There  must 
be  such  a  beginning  in  every  man:  in  fact,  there 
must  come  an  instant  of  choice;  an  instant  in 
which  a  man  consciously  chooses  his  path,  weigh 
ing  all  that  is  past  against  the  hope  and  intel 
lectual  conception  of  a  better  life. 

Bellair  brooded  upon  this  a  great  deal,  espe 
cially  on  the  ninth  day,  and  that  was  the  day, 

[168] 


THE     OPEN      BO  AT 


Fleury  talked — the  holiest  of  their  days  in  the 
open  boat.  Bellair  found  many  things  clearer 
afterwards.  As  soon  as  he  understood  fully,  he 
meant  to  close  it  all,  so  far  as  his  own  relation  was 
concerned.  In  its  very  nature  it  must  be  given  to 
others,  must  be  turned  to  helpfulness.  It  was  a 
sort  of  star-dust  which  did  not  adhere  to  self,  but 
sought  places  of  innocence  to  shine  from,  and  used 
every  pure  instrument  for  its  dissemination.  The 
key  to  the  whole  matter  was  the  loss  of  the  sense  of 
self.  Having  accepted  this,  Bellair  knew  that 
he  must  go  up  into  Nineveh,  so  to  speak.  He 
trembled. 

"We  learn  by  austerities  apart,"  Fleury  said, 
"and  then  we  return  to  men  with  the  story.  We 
are  called  up  the  mountain  to  witness  the  trans 
figuration,  and  then  are  sent  with  the  picture  down 
among  men.  Oh,  no,  we  are  not  permitted  to 
remain,  nor  build  a  temple  up  there.  First  we 
receive;  then  we  must  give.  We  must  lose  the 
sense  of  self  in  order  to  receive;  and  having  re 
ceived,  we  do  not  want  the  sense  of  self.  This 
is  the  right  and  left  hand  of  prayer — pure  selfless 
receptivity,  then  tireless  giving  to  others.  It  is 
the  'key  to  the  whole  scheme  of  life — mountain 
and  valley,  ebb  and  flow,  night  and  day,  winter 
and  summer,  the  movement  of  the  lungs  and  the 
heart  and  the  soul.  We  cannot  receive  while  our 
senses  are  hot  with  desire;  therefore  we  must  be 
come  delicate  and  sensitive.  Having  received,  we 

[169] 


LOT      &      COMPANY 


must  make  the  gift  alive  through  action.  Dream 
ing  is  splendid;  the  dreamer  receives.  The 
dreamer  starts  all  things;  but  the  dreamer  be 
comes  a  hopeless  ineffectual  if  he  does  not  make 
his  dreams  come  true  in  matter.  That  is  it.  We 
are  here  to  make  matter  follow  the  dream.  That's 
why  the  spirit  puts  on  flesh — that's  why  we  are 
workmen.  Action  is  the  right  hand  of  thought." 

The  preacher  was  ahead  of  him  in  these 
thoughts.  So  often  he  said  just  what  Bellair 
needed,  the  exact,  clearing,  helpful  thing.  For 
instance,  Bellair  had  followed  his  own  fascinat 
ing  conviction  that  the  world  is  full  of  secret 
values;  that  the  world  is  ready  to  pull  together, 
only  it  requires  a  certain  stimulus  from  without — 
some  certain  message  that  would  reach  and  unify 
all.  Fleury  tightened  the  matter  by  his  expres 
sion  of  it: 

"The  socialists  are  doing  great  good.  The 
church  is  still  doing  good;  the  societies  that  have 
turned  to  the  East  have  heard  the  great  message; 
even  in  commerce  there  is  a  new  life;  everywhere 
in  the  world,  the  sense  of  having  found  some  new 
spirit  which  works  to  destroy  the  sense  of  self. 
If  one  great  figure  should  come  now — come  saying, 
'You  are  all  good.  You  are  all  after  the  same 
thing.  One  way  is  as  good  as  another — only 
come.'  .  .  .  What  we  need  is  for  some  one  to 
touch  the  chord  for  us — to  give  us  the  key,  as 
to  an  orchestra  of  different  instruments.  We  are 

[170] 


THE      OPEN      BOAT 


all  making  different  notes;  and  yet  are  ready  for 
the  harmony — some  of  us  intensely  eager  for  the 
harmony.  The  great  need  is  for  a  Unifier.  .  .  . 
It  seems  that  we,  here  in  the  small  boat,  can  see 
America  so  much  clearer,  than  when  we  were 
there " 

Bellair  had  felt  this  a  thousand  times. 

"The  greatest  story  in  the  world  is  the  story 
of  the  coming  of  a  Messiah — the  one  who  may 
chord  for  us.  I  think  He  will  come.  He  will 
come  out  of  the  East,  his  face  like  the  morning 
sun  turned  to  the  West.  Don't  you  see — we  are 
all  like  atoms  of  steel  in  a  chaos*?  You  know 
what  happens  when  a  voltage  of  electricity  is 
turned  upon  a  bar  of  steel1?  Order  comes  to  the 
chaos;  the  atoms  sing,  all  turned  the  same  way. 
That  Voice  must  come — that  tremendous  voltage 
of  spiritual  electricity — that  will  set  us  all  in 
harmony — all  with  our  tails  down  stream." 

And  Fleury  finished  it  all  by  pointing  out  what 
had  happened  to  them  in  the  small  boat.  They 
had  lost  separateness ;  they  were  each  for  the 
others. 

"That's  what  must  happen  in  America,  in  the 
world, — the  pull  of  each  for  the  whole — the  har 
mony.  You  have  seen  an  audience  in  the  midst 
of  great  message  or  great  music — they  weep  to 
gether.  They  cry  out  together.  They  are  all 
one.  That's  the  story.  That  is  what  must  hap 
pen.  It  will  happen  when  the  Unifier  comes.  It 

[171] 


LOT     &      COMPANY 


is  the  base  of  all  gospel — that  we  are  all  one  in 
spirit.  Don't  you  see  it — every  message  from  the 
beginning  of  time  has  told  it1?  All  one — all  one — 
our  separateness  is  our  suffering,  our  evil.  To  re 
turn  to  the  House  of  Our  Father — that  is  the 
end  of  estrangement." 

.  .  .  And  Fleury  was  the  one  who  had  ceased 
to  talk.  But  he  had  acted,  too.  .  .  .  They  saw 
that  he  was  held  by  some  power  of  his  giving  to 
them.  He  was  like  light.  He  had  given  the  whole 
material  force  of  his  body  to  hold  off  that  destruc 
tion  which  had  come  with  the  dying  of  Stack- 
house.  He  had  not  eaten,  even  as  they  had  eaten. 
They  feared  for  him,  because  he  was  the  centre 
and  mainspring  of  their  pilgrimage.  Especially 
this  haunt  became  more  grippable  in  the  heart  of 
the  ninth  night.  .  .  .  There  was  a  small  tin  of 
water  left,  less  than  three  pints,  very  far  from 
clean;  and  somewhat  less  than  a  pound  of  crack 
ers.  Bellair  awoke  to  find  Fleury  gone  from  his 
place  between  him  and  the  woman.  He  was  in 
the  stern,  in  the  old  seat  of  Stackhouse,  praying. 
.  .  .  Fleury  met  the  tenth  day  with  an  exaltation 
that  awed  Bellair  and  the  woman ;  and  there  came 
from  it  a  fear  to  Bellair's  heart  that  had  nothing  to 
do  with  self,  nor  with  the  Mother,  nor  the  Gleam. 

They  were  all  weak,  and  two  men  utterly  weak. 
Through  their  will  and  denial,  and  the  extraordi 
nary  force  and  health  of  her  own  nature,  the  child 
had  not  yet  been  dangerously  denied.  It  had  be- 

[172] 


THE      OPEN      BOAT 


come  a  sort  of  natural  religion  with  the  three — a 
readiness  to  die  for  the  Gleam. 

"This  is  our  last  day,"  said  Fleury,  before  the 
western  horizon  was  marked  clear.  .  .  .  The 
Faraway  Woman  told  them  another  story  of  what 
the  wise  old  shepherd  dog  told  the  puppies — that 
it  was  better  to  begin  on  crackers  and  water —  and 
end  on  cookies  and  cream.  .  .  . 

ll 

Bellair  believed  about  this  being  the  last  day. 
The  authority  was  quite  enough,  but  there  was 
still  something  akin  to  eternity  in  the  possible 
space  of  another  daylight  and  distance.  The 
announcement  did  not  bring  him  an  unmixed 
gladness,  for  the  mysterious  fear  of  the  night 
haunted  him — the  thing  that  had  come  to  him 
under  the  full  and  amazing  moon  while  Fleury 
prayed.  .  .  .  Day  revealed  no  sign.  They  sat 
speechless  and  bowed  under  the  smiting  noon — 
the  little  boat  in  the  wide,  green  deep  under  a 
fleckless,  windless  sky,  proud  of  its  pure  part  in 
infinite  space. 

That  was  the  day  the  child  moaned,  as  sig 
nificantly  for  the  ears  of  men,  as  for  the  mother. 
He  was  a  waif  to  look  at — the  little  heart  at 
times  like  one  of  them  in  stoicism — then  nestling 
to  the  mother-breast  and  the  turning  away  in 
astonishment  and  pain.  The  Mother's  eyes  were 
harrowing. 

[173] 


LOT      &      COMPANY 


"This  is  our  last  day,"  Fleury  repeated. 

"I  believe  you,"  she  said. 

"Then  drink  and  eat " 

"I  did— it  is— it  is— oh,  I  did!" 

"Land  or  rain  or  a  ship,  I  do  not  know — but 
this  is  the  last  day " 

Bellair  regarded  him,  between  his  own  word 
less  vapourings  of  consciousness.  The  preacher 
was  like  a  guest,  not  of  earth  altogether — like  one 
who  would  come  in  the  evening.  .  .  .  Yes,  that 
was  it.  He  was  like  the  old  man  who  came  to 
Olga,  only  young  and  beautiful.  It  did  not  occur 
to  Bellair  now  that  he  was  regarding  his  friend 
with  a  quality  of  vision  that  a  well-fed  man  never 
knows.  .  .  .  That  which  he  had  fancied  placid 
and  boyish  was  knit  and  masterful.  The  cheeks 
and  temples  were  hollowed,  but  the  eyes  were 
bright.  There  is  a  brightness  of  hunger,  of  fever, 
of  certain  drugs,  but  these  were  as  different  as 
separate  colours — and  had  not  to  do  with  this 
man's  eyes.  Nothing  that  Bellair  knew  but  star 
light  could  be  likened — and  not  all  starlight. 
There  was  one  star  that  rose  late  and  climbed 
high  above  and  a  little  toward  the  north — soli 
tary,  remote,  not  yellow  nor  red  nor  green  nor 
white,  as  we  know  it — yet  of  that  whiteness  which 
is  the  source  of  all.  Bellair  had  forgotten  the 
name,  but  Fleury's  eyes  made  him  think  of  it. 

.  .  .  The  woman's  head  was  lying  back.  Some 
thing  that  Bellair  had  noted  a  hundred  times, 

[174] 


THE     OPEN     BOAT 


without  bringing  it  actually  into  his  mind's  front, 
now  appeared  with  all  the  energy  of  a  realisation. 
Her  throat  was  almost  too  beautiful.  The  diverg 
ing  lines  under  the  ear,  one  stretching  down  to 
the  shoulder,  the  other  curving  forward  around 
the  chin,  were  shadowed  a  little  deeper  from  her 
body's  wasting,  but  the  beauty  was  deeper  than 
flesh,  the  structure  itself  classic.  It  was  the  same 
as  when  he  had  noted  her  finger-nails.  Beauty  had 
brought  him  a  kind  of  excitement,  and  something 
of  hostility — as  if  he  had  been  hurt  terribly  by 
it  long  ago.  But  this  was  different;  these  details 
had  come  one  by  one,  as  he  was  ready.  Her  in 
tegrity  had  entered  his  heart  before  each  outer 
symbol.  He  had  not  seen  her  at  all  at  first;  re 
called  the  queer  sense  of  hesitation  in  raising  his 
eyes  across  the  table  in  the  cabin  of  the  Jade.  He 
had  studied  her  face  in  the  open  boat,  but  some 
thing  seemed  to  blur  his  eyes  when  she  turned  to 
him  to  speak.  Two  are  required  for  a  real  under 
standing.  As  yet  they  had  not  really  met,  not 
yet  turned  to  each  other  in  that  searching  silence 
which  fathoms.  But  the  details  were  dawning 
upon  him.  Perhaps  that  was  the  way  of  the  Fara 
way  Woman — to  dawn  upon  one. 

The  day  was  ending — their  shadows  long  upon 
the  water.    Fleury  raised  his  hand  as  he  said : 

"It    is    surer    to   me    than    anything    in    the 

world " 

[175] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 


"What,  Fleury?'  Bellair  asked,  though  there 
was  but  one  theme  of  the  day. 

"That  this  is  our  last  day  in  the  open  boat." 

Bellair  did  not  answer.  His  own  voice  had 
a  hideous  sound  to  him  and  betrayed  his  misery. 

"It  was  the  too-great  light — that  I  saw,"  the 
preacher  added  huskily.  "It  began  last  night  as 
I  prayed.  I  saw  that  this  was  the  last  day  for 
us — but  more " 

"I  saw  something  about  you  as  you  prayed," 
the  woman  said. 

Fleury  surprised  them  now,  taking  a  sup  of 
water.  They  saw  that  he  had  something  to  say 
about  God  and  the  soul  of  man — that  was  the 
romance  he  worshipped.  They  listened  with  awe. 
In  Bellair's  heart,  at  least,  there  was  a  conviction 
that  tightened  continually — that  they  were  not 
long  to  hear  the  words  of  the  preacher. 

".  .  .  For  two  years  I  have  been  in  the  dark 
and  could  not  pray.  Before  that  I  prayed  with 
the  thought  of  self,  which  is  not  prayer.  I  could 
not  stay  as  a  church  leader  without  praying.  I 
said  I  would  pray  when  I  could  pray  purely  for 
them.  I  told  them,  too,  that  I  could  not  look 
back  in  service  and  adoration  to  the  Saviour  of 
another  people  who  lived  two  thousand  years  ago. 
They  called  me  a  devil  and  a  blasphemer.  For 
two  years,  I  have  tried  to  serve  instead  of  to  pray, 
but  no  one  would  listen,  no  one  would  have  me. 
They  said  I  was  insane,  and  at  times  I  believed 

[176] 


THE      OPEN      BOAT 

it.  At  last,  it  came  to  me  that  I  must  go  away — 
to  the  farthest  part  of  the  world " 

He  turned  yearningly  to  the  woman. 

"And  then  you  came  with  your  strength  and 
faith." 

Now  to  Bellair: 

"And  you  came  with  the  world  in  your  thoughts, 
and  I  made  the  third.  We  went  down  into  the 
wilderness  together — with  that  other  of  the  under 
world.  It  was  a  cosmos.  It  has  shown  me  all 
I  can  bear.  Last  night,  it  came  to  me  that  I  could 
pray  for  you.  It  came  simply,  because  I  loved  you 
enough " 

His  face  moved  from  one  to  the  other,  his  hand 
fumbling  the  dress  of  the  child  beside  him. 

"It  was  very  clear.  As  soon  as  I  loved  you 
enough,  I  could  pray  for  you,  without  thought 
of  self.  It  was  the  loss  of  the  self  that  made  it 
all  so  wonderful.  And  as  I  prayed,  the  light 
came,  and  the  Saviour  I  had  lost,  was  in  the  light. 
And  the  light  was  Ahead ;  and  this  message  from 
Him,  came  to  my  soul: 

"/  am  here  for  those  who  look  ahead'  and  for 
those  who  turn  back  two  thousand  years,  I  am 
there.  Those  who  love  one  another  find  me 
swiftly" 

Bellair  scarcely  heard  him.  Fleury's  eyes  were 
light  itself.  The  man's  inner  flame  had  broken 
through.  Something  incandescent  was  within 
him;  something  within  touched  by  the  "glittering 

[177] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 

plane."  But  it  did  not  mean  future  years  to 
gether.  Bellair  had  wanted  that.  .  .  .  Fleury 
smiled  now,  his  eyes  lost  in  the  East.  He  lifted 
his  hand. 

"It  always  comes  from  the  East,"  he  said 
strangely. 

Bellair  had  searched  that  horizon  a  few  mo 
ments  ago.  He  knew  exactly  how  the  East  had 
looked — a  thin  luminous  grey  line  on  the  green, 
brightening  to  Prussian  blue,  then  to  vivid  azure. 
He  dared  not  look  now,  but  watched  the  woman. 

Straining  and  terror  were  in  her  eyes — then 
sudden  light,  a  miracle  of  light  and  hope,  then  her 
cry. 

Bellair  seemed  to  see  it  in  her  mind — the 
smudge  upon  the  horizon — before  he  turned.  It 
was  there — a  blur  on  the  thin  grey  line. 

To  lift  the  oars  was  like  raising  logs  of  oak, 
but  he  shipped  the  pair  at  last,  listening  for  the 
words  of  the  others  and  watching  their  faces.  It 
seemed  simpler  than  straining  his  eyes  to  the  East. 
Fleury  tried  to  raise  the  overcoat  from  the  bottom 
of  the  boat,  but  it  fell  from  his  hands,  and  he 
sank  back  smiling  : 

"It  doesn't  matter,"  he  said.  "They're  com 
ing.  They'll  see  us  soon." 

To  Bellair  it  was  like  seeing  a  ghost,  that  smile 
of  Fleury's.  It  meant  something  that  in  the  future 
would  be  quite  as  important  to  him  as  the  ship's 
bearing  down  to  lift  them  up.  He  pulled  toward 

[178] 


THE      OPEN      BOAT 


the  east — felt  the  old  fainting  come,  pulled 
against  that, — to  the  east,  until  a  low,  thunder 
ing  vibration  was  all  about  him,  like  the  tramp 
of  death.  Perhaps  it  was  that — the  thought 
flickered  up  into  form  out  of  the  deep  blur.  .  .  . 
He  was  drinking  water  again.  This  time  he  did 
not  fight. 

"You  may  as  well  have  yours,  Bellair,  man," 
Fleury  was  saying,  "and  you  need  not  row. 
They're  coming.  It's  a  ship  coming  fast.  There 
is  light  for  them  to  see  us  well — if  they  do  not 
already " 

"But  you  haven't  drunk!" 

"Bless  you,  I'll  drink  now." 

The  woman  handed  him  the  water.  The  cup 
was  in  his  hand.  He  covered  merely  the  bottom 
of  the  cup,  and  made  much  of  it  as  if  it  were  a 
full  quart. 

"The  fact  is — I'm  not  thirsty,"  he  said  piti 
fully,  when  he  saw  their  faces. 

"You're  all  in,"  Bellair  said  in  an  awed  tone. 

Through  the  prolonged  ending  of  that  day  Bel 
lair  watched  the  steamer  near,  but  his  thoughts 
were  not  held  to  the  beauty  of  her  form,  nor  the 
pricking  out  at  last  of  her  lights.  He  stood  against 
the  bare  pole  in  the  dusk,  and  waved  and  called — 
his  voice  little  and  whimsical.  It  seemed  to  falter 
and  cling  within  their  little  radius,  then  run  back 
to  his  ears — a  fledgeling  effort.  But  the  deep  bay- 

[179] 


LOT      &     COMPANY 


ing  of  the  steamer  answered  at  last.  Even  that 
could  not  hold  Bellair's  thoughts.  .  .  .  She  was 
coming  straight  toward  them  now.  If  it  were 
death  and  illusion,  so  be  it;  at  least  that  is  what  he 
saw. 

"It  would  be  all  right — except  for  him,"  Bel- 
lair  said  to  the  woman. 

"I  tell  you  all  is  well,"  said  Fleury.  "Only  I 
ask " 

"Yes,"  they  said,  when  he  paused. 

"Don't  let  them  separate  us — when  we  are  on 
board  the  ship  to-night.  I  want  to  be  with  you 
both  to-night — we  three  who  have  seen  so  much 
together — and  the  little  man." 

.  .  .  They  heard  her  bells  and  the  slackening 
of  the  engines.  She  was  coming  in  softly  like 
an  angel,  bringing  the  different  life,  a  return  to 
earth  it  was.  The  woman  was  weeping.  Bellair 
could  not  have  spoken  without  tears.  .  .  . 

Just  now  through  the  evening  purple,  he  saw 
that  star  in  the  east,  off  the  point  of  the  steamer's 
prow. 

"Fleury,"  he  said,  "tell  me — what  is  that  one — 
that  pure  one — I  have  forgotten1?" 

The  preacher's  eyes  followed  his  finger. 

"That  is  Spika — Spika  of  the  Virgin,"  he  said. 

12 

The  engine  had  stopped.    She  neared  in  the  deep 
dusk,  a  harp  of  lights,  and  with  the  steady  sound 

[180] 


THE      OPEN      BOAT 


of  a  waterfall.  .  .  .  She  was  just  moving.  There 
was  a  hail  from  the  heights. 

"Hai!"  answered  Bellair.  It  was  a  poor, 
broken  sound. 

Now  they  felt  the  strange,  different  heat  of  the 
steamer — earth-heat — and  a  thousand  odours  reg 
istered  on  their  clean  senses — milk  and  meat,  coal- 
smoke,  and  the  steam  of  hot  ashes,  perfumes, 
metal  and  paint.  ...  A  hoarse  voice  called 
down: 

"Are  any  of  you  sick — infectious?" 

"No — just  hunger  and  thirst — clean  as  a  new 
berth." 

It  was  Bellair  again. 

"Stay  off  well.  We're  putting  down  a  ladder. 
Watch  the  green  light." 

They  saw  it  come  down  to  them — to  the  very 
water.  Then  they  were  uplifted.  This  was  the 
world  coming  back — but  a  changed  world.  A 
great  kindness  had  come  over  all  men.  Bellair 
saw  the  tears  in  the  eyes  of  the  people  gathered 
on  the  deck.  He  almost  expected  to  see  Bes 
sie  Break  there.  .  .  .  Perhaps  the  change  had 
come  from  her  singing.  .  .  .  There  was  a  choke 
in  the  voices  of  the  people  gathered  around 
them. 

"Please,"  he  managed  to  say,  "don't  keep  us 
apart  to-night — we  three.  Please  let  us  be  to 
gether." 

And  down  the  deck-passage  he  heard  the  voices 

[181] 


LOT      &     COMPANY 

of  women,  and  among  them,  the  Faraway 
Woman's  voice,  in  answer: 

"Yes,  I  will  go  with  you  thankfully — but  not 
for  long.  My  companions  and  I  must  be  together 
very  soon.  We  three — to-night — it  is  promised 
between  us." 

There  was  no  voice  from  Fleury. 

The  kindness  of  every  one,  that  was  like  a 
poignant  distress  to  Bellair.  He  dared  not  speak; 
in  fact,  there  was  danger  of  him  breaking  down 
even  without  words.  The  eyes  about  him  were 
searching,  in  their  eagerness  to  help.  An  English 
man  came  forward  at  intervals  and  gripped  his 
hand;  a  German  spoke  to  others  of  the  remark 
able  condition  of  the  boat  and  its  three,  after  ten 
days;  another  German  moved  in  and  out  helping, 
without  any  words,  though  his  eyes  lifted  Bel- 
lair  over  several  pinches  of  emotion.  The  Amer 
ican  ship-doctor  was  the  best  of  all ;  young,  gruff, 
humorous,  quick-handed,  doing  and  saying  the 
right  thing.  .  .  .  They  brought  him  stimulants 
and  sups  of  water  by  the  teaspoon.  The  merest 
aroma  of  thin  broth  in  the  bottom  of  a  tea-cup  was 
lifted  to  his  lips.  He  was  helped  to  a  hot  bath;  a 
splendid  quiet  friendliness  about  it  all.  Now  it 
occurred  to  Bellair  that  they  were  tremendously 
eager  to  hear  his  story.  He  wanted  to  satisfy 
them.  .  .  . 

"It  was  the  fifth  day — that  Stackhouse  died," 
he  was  saying,  though  he  was  mistaken.  "Per- 

[182] 


THE      OPEN      BOAT 


haps  you've  heard  of  him  .  .  .  owns  a  lot  of  ships 
and  islands  down  here.  .  .  .  That  was  the  climax 
for  us.  He  died  hard  and  he  was  a  big  man — but 
we  did  not  murder  him.  .  .  .  His  body  did  not 
sink.  ..." 

There  was  a  boom  of  running  water  in  the  bath 
room;  the  steam  rising.  Bellair's  voice  was  in 
effectual.  The  face  of  the  ship-surgeon  bent  to 
him  in  the  steam,  saying: 

"Cut  it — there's  plenty  of  time.  .  .  .  Leave  it 
all  to  us.  ...  I  say,  lean  back.  You've  got  a 
bath  coming.  Guess  you've  never  been  on  a  sick- 
list  before.  We  can  wait  for  the  story." 

Bellair  did  try  to  lean  back.  One  by  one,  the 
sheathes  of  will  power  that  he  had  integrated  in 
the  past  ten  days  relaxed.  It  was  strange  to  feel 
them  go.  They  had  come  hard,  and  they  were 
correspondingly  slow  to  ease  in  their  grip.  He 
had  to  be  told  again  and  again — to  be  helped  to 
rest.  It  was  good  to  think  that  a  man  does  not 
lose  such  hard-won  strength  more  easily  than  it 
comes — that  one,  in  fact,  has  to  use  the  same  force 
to  relax  with.  It  was  all  delightful,  this  friendli 
ness,  the  ease  of  his  body,  and  the  giving — the 
giving  into  human  arms  of  great  kindliness,  and 
the  sense  of  the  others  being  cared  for  similarly. 
They  had  fixed  a  berth  for  him,  when  he  said: 

"You  know  we  are  to  be  together  to-night.  It 
was  a  compact  between  us " 

The  surgeon  was  out  and  in.  It  occurred  to 
[183] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 


Bellair  that  he  was  attending  the  other  two.  .  .  . 
He  repeated  his  wish  to  the  surgeon  about  joining 
the  others  as  soon  as  possible. 

"They're  all  alike,"  the  latter  said.  "They're 
all  thinking  about  getting  together  again.  .  .  . 
Good  God,  man,  you've  had  ten  days  of  steady 
company.  You  ought  to  sleep — : — " 

"It  is  a  compact  between  us.  ...  Is  he — 
is  he?" 

It  came  to  Bellair  that  this  man  might  be  able 
to  tell  him  the  truth,  but  the  surgeon  was  now 
at  the  door  speaking  to  one  of  the  Germans.  He 
vanished  without  turning.  .  .  . 

They  were  together  later  in  one  of  the  empty 
cabins  of  the  German  liner,  Formalhaut,  bound 
for  Auckland ;  and  only  the  American  doctor  came 
and  went.  The  child  was  asleep  in  the  berth  be 
side  Fleury.  The  two  others  sat  near. 

The  extraordinary  moonlight  of  the  night  be 
fore,  when  Bellair  had  awakened  to  find  the 
preacher  at  prayer,  had  left  the  spirit  of  its  radi 
ance  upon  Fleury's  face.  It  was  there  now — and 
such  a  different  face  from  which  his  eyes,  falsified 
by  New  York,  had  seen  at  first.  This  was  the 
real  Fleury — this  lean,  dark,  white-toothed 
gamester,  features  touched  by  some  immortal  glow 
from  that  orient  moon ;  whose  smile  and  the  qual 
ity  of  every  word  and  gesture,  had  for  him  a 
gleam  of  inspiration  and  the  nobility  of  tender- 
£184] 


THE     OPEN      BOAT 


ness.  The  man  had  risen  in  Fleury — that  was 
the  secret.  And  this  that  had  risen  in  Fleury  could 
not  die. 

But  the  flesh  was  dying.  Bellair  had  known  it 
in  the  dusk  while  the  steamer  neared.  He  knew 
that  the  woman  understood — from  her  face  which 
leaned  toward  the  berth  continually,  from  the 
suffering  in  her  eyes  and  the  dilation  of  sensitive 
nostrils.  .  .  .  For  ten  days,  as  much  as  he  could, 
Fleury  had  betrayed  himself.  Custodian  of  the 
food  and  water,  he  had  served  them  well.  And 
that  day  of  the  Stackhouse  passing — if  it  were  not 
all  a  hideous  dream,  as  Bellair  fancied  at  times — 
he  had  not  given  a  balance  of  strength  that  had 
not  returned,  to  fight  off  the  will  of  the  In 
truder. 

The  flesh  was  dying,  but  this  that  had  risen  in 
Fleury  could  not  die.  Their  other  companion 
had  gone  down,  clothed  in  hair  and  filth  and  the 
desire  of  a  beast,  taking  the  remnant  of  the  man 
with  it. 

Thus  it  had  come  to  Bellair — the  vivid  con 
trast  of  cavern  and  high  noon.  It  was  all  in  the 
two  deaths,  the  enactment  of  the  second,  as  yet 
unfinished.  .  ,  .  New  York  and  all  life  moved 
with  countless  tricks  and  lures  to  make  a  man 
lose  his  way,  lose  his  chance  to  rise  and  die  with 
grace  like  this.  New  York  was  like  one  vast  Lot 
&  Company. 

Fleury 's  head  was  upon  the  knees  of  the 
[185] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 


woman.  Bellair  had  not  seen  her  take  him.  For 
this  last  hour,  the  three  were  as  one.  There  was  a 
cry  from  Bellair  that  the  woman  heard  all  her 
days: 

"Oh,  Fleury,  do  you  have  to  go^" 

So  far  as  time  measures,  the  silence  was  long 
before  Fleury  answered,  and  then  only  to  say : 

"Take  my  hand,  Bellair." 

He  came  up  from  a  deep  dream  to  obey.  It  had 
been  as  if  he  were  out  under  the  stars  again, — 
Fleury  talking  from  the  shadows  near  the  woman 
• — the  rest,  vastness  and  starlight. 

"It's  the  too-great  light,  Bellair.  It  came  when 
I  could  stand  it.  As  soon  as  I  could  love  you 
enough  I  could  pray.  It  is  the  loss  of  the  sense 
of  self  that  made  it  wonderful.  The  Light  and 
His  voice  came  from  ahead. 

"  '/  am  here  for  those  who  look  ahead,  and 
for  those  who  turn  back  two  thousand  years,  I 
am  there.  Those  who  love  one  another  -find  me 
swiftly?  .  .  .  This  is  dying  of  happiness." 

In  the  silence,  the  low  lights  of  the  cabin  came 
back  for  their  eyes.  They  heard  him  say  at  the 
last: 

"...  I  love  you  both  and  respect  and  thank 
you  both.  We  found  our  happiness  in  the  open 
boat.  .  .  .  And  Bellair,  when  you  go  back  to 
New  York,  do  not  stay  too  long.  It  is  right  for 
you  to  go,  but  do  not  stay  too  long.  .  .  .  And 
dear  Bellair — always  follow  the  Gleam." 

[186] 


THE      OPEN      BOAT 


The  Doctor  came.  It  was  his  step  in  the  pas 
sage  that  roused  them.  He  bent  to  the  face,  then 
searched  the  eyes  of  the  woman.  She  could  not 
find  his.  .  .  .  Bellair  was  puzzled.  The  head 
was  in  her  lap,  yet  the  preacher  seemed  behind 
them,  and  still  with  something  to  say.  They  were 
not  sure  at  first  that  it  was  the  Doctor  who  asked : 

"Why  did  you  not  call  me?' 

He  repeated  the  question. 

"He  told  us — you  would  come  afterward,"  Bel- 
lair  said  in  a  dazed  way. 

"Yes,  he  wanted  it  so,"  said  the  woman. 

The  Doctor  stared  at  them.  "Are  you  two  go 
ing  to  pull  off  anything  further  to-night,  or  are 
you  going  to  get  the  rest  you  need,  and  attend  to 
the  nourishment  you  need?" 

"We're  under  orders  now,  Doctor,"  said  Bel- 
lair.  .  .  . 

"If  I  should  want  him  in  the  night — if  I  should 
be  frightened,  you  would  let  him  come1?" 

It  was  the  Faraway  Woman  who  asked  this  of 
the  Doctor,  her  hand  touching  Bellair's  sleeve. 

"Why,  of  course,"  the  Doctor  answered 
quickly. 

"We've  been  together  in  strange  things,"  Bel- 
lair  explained.  "And  now  you  see,  our  friend  is 
gone." 

The  door  was  open  between  their  cabins,  but 
Bellair  was  not  called.  Once  he  heard  the  child 

[187] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 


cry,  but  it  was  quickly  hushed.  .  .  .  He  thought 
it  must  be  near  morning  at  last,  and  went  on  deck. 
He  was  not  suffering,  except  from  lassitude,  deep 
languor  and  numbing  strangeness  that  Fleury  was 
not  near  him — that  the  woman  was  not  sitting  in 
her  place  forward.  ...  It  was  just  after  mid 
night,  the  moon  still  high,  the  weather  the  same. 

.  .  .  He  was  not  seen.  Three  men  were  seated 
smoking  in  the  lee  of  one  of  the  engine-room  fun 
nels,  the  light  from  the  dining-saloon  on  their 
knees.  The  Doctor  joined  them,  and  said  pres 
ently  : 

".  .  .  It's  a  bit  deep  for  me.  They've  been  in 
an  open  boat  ten  days.  Old  Stackhouse,  well- 
known  down  here,  died  of  thirst  the  fourth  or 
fifth  day,  but  these  two  and  the  infant  have  lived 
through  it.  The  preacher  looked  all  right,  but 
seems  to  have  suffered  a  fatal  case  of  happiness 
since  we  lifted  him  aboard.  The  two  knew  it 
was  coming  apparently,  and  arranged  for  me  to 
be  absent.  ...  It  appears  that  they  made  a  sort 
of  pilgrimage  to  Mecca  out  of  thirst  and  starva 
tion,  and  got  away  with  it " 

Bellair  withdrew  softly. 

In  the  long  next  forenoon  when  he  could  not 
rise,  he  wished  he  had  gone  into  that  open  door, 
when  he  was  on  his  feet  last  night.  Sometimes 
half-dreamily  he  wished  he  were  back  in  the  open 
boat,  because  she  was  always  there.  Something 
had  taken  establishment  in  his  character  from 

[188] 


THE     OPEN      BOAT 


that  ten  days.  She  had  never  failed — in  light  or 
dark,  in  the  twilights  of  dawn  and  evening,  in 
moon  and  star  and  sunlight — always  there;  dis 
closing  leisurely  some  new  aspect  of  beauty  for 
him.  He  understood  now  that  one  does  not  be 
gin  to  see  clearly  any  object  until  one  is  attracted 
to  it — that  all  the  cursory  looking  at  tilings  around 
the  world  will  not  bring  them  home  to  the  full, 
comprehension. 

.  .  .  He  could  call  to  her,  but  it  was  like  tele 
phoning.  He  had  never  liked  that,  and  beside  he 
was  not  the  master  of  his  voice.  It  would  not  go 
straight,  but  lingered  in  corners,  broke  pitifully 
— so  that  he  knew  it  frightened  her — and  the 
meanings  in  his  mind  which  he  could  not  speak, 
pressed  the  tears  out  of  his  eyes.  .  .  .  Then  there 
was  pain.  His  body  astonished  him.  He  had 
merely  been  weak  and  undone  last  night,  but  to 
day.  .  .  .  And  he  knew  that  she  was  suffering, 
not  from  any  sound  from  her  cabin,  but  because 
she  did  not  come.  Then  they  had  to  feed  the 
child.  This  filled  him  with  a  rebellion  so  sharp 
that  it  recalled  him  to  full  faculties  for  a  second. 
He  had  to  smile  at  his  absurdity. 

The  second  day  it  was  the  same,  but  the  third 
Bellair  arose;  and  when  she  heard  his  step,  her 
call  came.  It  was  still  early  morning.  He  found 
the  child  before  he  looked  into  her  face. 

"I  am  ashamed  to  be  so  weak,"  she  said.  "But 
to-day — a  little  later — he  said  I  could  rise.  We 
[189] 


LOT     &      COMPANY 

are  to  be  on  deck  for  a  half-hour  after  din 
ner,  he  told  me." 

"The    little    Gleam "    said    Bellair.  .  .  . 

She  was  whiter,  more  emaciated  than  when  they 
sighted  the  Formalhaut.  There  had  been  a  crisis 
that  they  had  not  expected  in  the  relinquishment 
of  their  will-powers.  .  .  .  Yet  he  saw  how  per 
fectly  her  face  was  fashioned.  .  .  .  Her  hand 
came  up  to  him,  warm  from  the  child,  the  sleeve 
falling  back  to  her  shoulder — held  toward  him, 
palm  upward.  As  he  took  it,  all  strangeness  and 
embarrassment  left  him,  and  he  was  something 
that  he  had  not  been  for  five  years,  something 
from  the  Unknowable.  But  that  was  not  all.  He 
looked  into  her  eyes  and  met  something  untellably 
familiar  there. 

A  most  memorable  moment  to  Bellair. 

They  were  on  deck  together  in  the  afternoon, 
the  American  doctor  helping  them.  They  heard 
sacred  music — as  he  walked  between  them  aft. 
They  reached  the  rail  of  the  promenade  overlook 
ing  the  main-deck.  ...  A  service  was  being  in 
toned  in  German.  Passengers  and  crew  were  be 
low,  and  in  the  midst — leaded  and  sewn  in  can 
vas,  in  the  cover  of  a  flag 

The  sound  that  came  from  the  woman  was  not 
to  be  interpreted.  She  turned  and  left  them.  Bel 
lair  would  have  followed  but  he  felt  a  courtesy 
due  the  Doctor,  who  had  arranged  for  them  not 

[190] 


THE      OPEN      BOAT 


to  miss  the  ceremony.  Perhaps  he  had  held  the 
ceremony  until  they  could  leave  the  cabin.  Yet 
Bellair  had  already  turned  away. 

"Good  God "  said  the  American.  "You 

people  have  got  me  stopped.  I  thought  this  was 
a  trinity  outfit — that  we  picked  up." 

Bellair  took  his  hand.  "It  was — but  our  friend 
left  us." 

The  Doctor  glanced  at  him  curiously,  and 
pointed  down  to  the  body  already  upon  the  rail. 
"I  suppose  that  has  nothing  to  do  with  him"?"  he 
remarked. 

"Not  now — not  to  watch,"  said  Bellair. 

"I'll  understand  you  sometime,"  the  other 
added.  "Go  to  her.  You'll  probably  find  her 
waiting  for  you  forward." 

Bellair  lay  in  his  berth  that  night,  the  open 
door  between,  and  he  thought  of  that  first  real 
look  that  had  passed  between  them.  "I'm  not  just 
right  yet  from  the  open  boat,"  he  reflected.  "I'm 
all  let  down  from  starvation,  a  bit  wild  with 
dreams  and  visions,  but  I  saw  old  joys  there  and 
old  tragedies,  and  mountains  and  deserts  and — 
most  of  all,  partings.  I  wonder  what  I've  got  to 
do  with  them  all1?  It  seemed  to  me  that  I  be 
longed  to  some  of  those  partings — as  if  I  had 
hungered  with  her  before  and  belonged  to  her 
now — and  yet " 

Fleury  came  into  his  thoughts.  "They  were 
[191] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 

certainly  great  together.  It  seemed  to  me  that 
I  did  not  belong  when  they  were  together;  and 
yet,  this  morning  as  I  looked  down  at  her — well, 
something  of  expectancy  was  there " 

Bellair  found  himself  lying  almost  rigid  in  the 
intensity  of  his  hope.  Then  his  thoughts  whirled 
back  to  New  York — all  unfinished.  There  was 
something  in  his  heart  for  Bessie — and  something 
in  the  wallet  for  Bessie.  That  was  in  the  original 
conception,  and  he  must  not  fail  in  that ;  and  then 
he  must  clean  that  name,  Bellair,  from  the  black 
mark  Lot  &  Company  had  traced  across  it.  For 
a  moment  he  fell  to  wondering  just  how  he  would 
go  about  that.  Lot  &  Company  was  tight  and 
hard  to  move.  ...  A  moment  later  he  was  some 
where  in  an  evil  and  crowded  part  of  New  York, 
in  the  dark,  Davy  Acton  holding  him  fast  by 
the  hand. 

"...  something  of  expectancy."  .  .  .  Was 
it  in  her  eyes,  or  in  her  lips'?  Her  whole  face 
came  to  him  now,  a  picture  as  clear  as  life.  He1 
had  dwelt  upon  her  eyes  before — and  that  bil 
lowy  softness  of  her  breast,  as  she  lay — he  had 
not  thought  of  that.  It  was  like  something  one 
says  to  another  of  such  moment,  that  only  the 
meaning  goes  home — the  words  not  remembered 
until  afterward.  And  her  mouth — it  was  like  a 
girl's,  like  a  mother's  too,  so  tender  and  expectant. 
.  .  .  That  word  thrilled  him.  It  was  the  key  to 
it  all. 

[192] 


THE      OPEN      BO  AT 


He  was  farther  and  farther  from  sleep — listen 
ing  at  last  with  such  intensity  that  it  seemed 
she  must  call. 


'[193] 


PART   FIVE:   THE   STONE   HOUSE:   I 


[195] 


PART  FIVE 
THE    STONE    HOUSE:    I 


1 


woman  awed  him  quite  as  much  as 
in  the  open  boat.  The  turning  of  her 
profile  to  the  sea  had  for  Bellair  a  sig 
nificance  not  to  be  interpreted  exactly, 
but  it  had  to  do  with  firmness  and  aspiration  and 
the  future.  Fleury  was  in  their  minds  more  than 
in  speech.  She  could  speak  of  him  steadily,  and 
this  during  the  sensitiveness  of  convalescence 
which  is  so  close  to  tears.  Perhaps  they  found 
their  deepest  joy  in  the  child's  fresh  blooming. 
The  ship's  people  were  an  excellent  company. 

Bellair's  mind  adjusted  slowly,  and  by  a  rather 
intense  process,  to  the  fact  of  the  Stackhouse  wal 
let.  It  was  all  that  the  great  wanderer  had  said. 
The  woman  accepted  the  lifted  condition,  but  it 
seemed  hard  for  her  faculties  to  establish  a  rela 
tion  with  temporal  plenty.  Fleury  had  given 
them  each  a  greater  thing.  They  were  one  in 

[197] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 

that — keen  and  comprehensive;  indeed  their 
minds  attacked  with  vigour  and  ardour  this  one 
thought:  somehow  to  help  in  drawing  off  the 
brimming  sorrows  of  the  world. 

It  came  all  at  once  to  Bel  lair  that  this  was  no 
new  conception.  He  had  heard  and  read  of 
helping  all  his  life.  A  touch,  queerly  electric, 
had  come  over  him  as  a  boy,  when  a  certain  old 
man  passed,  and  some  one  whispered  in  the  most 
commonplace  way,  "His  whole  thought  is  for 
others."  .  .  .  He  had  read  it  in  many  books; 
especially  of  late,  the  note  had  been  sounded.  It 
was  getting  into  the  press — some  days  on  every 
page.  All  the  cultic  and  social  ports,  into  which 
he  had  sailed  (like  a  dingy  whaler,  he  thought) 
had  spoken  of  brotherhood,  first  and  last. 

Did  a  thing  like  this  have  to  be  talked  by  the 
few  for  several  thousand  years  before  it  broke 
its  way  into  the  conception  of  the  many,  and 
finally  began  to  draw  the  materials  of  action  to 
gether?  It  had  not  been  new  in  certain  parts 
of  the  world  two  thousand  years  ago  when  Jesus 
brought  the  perfect  story  of  it,  and  administered 
it  through  life  and  death.  Had  there  been  too 
much  speech  and  too  little  action  since;  or  did 
all  this  speech  help;  the  result  being  slow  but 
cumulative,  toward  the  end  of  the  clearly-chiselled 
thought  on  the  part  of  the  majority  that  would 
compel  the  atoms  of  matter  into  action,  making 
good  all  thoughts  and  dreams'?  .  .  .  He  knew 

[198] 


THE      STONE      HOUSE!     I 


men  who  sat  every  Sunday  listening  courteously 
to  more  or  less  inspired  voices  that  called  upon 
them  to  Love  One  Another;  yet  these  men,  during 
the  next  six  days,  moved  as  usual  about  their 
work  of  rivalry  and  burning  personal  desire.  Why 
was  this1? 

The  answer  was  in  his  own  breast.  He  had 
made  a  mental  conception  of  the  good  of  turning 
the  force  of  one's  life  out  to  others,  but  he  had 
not  lived  it ;  had  never  thought  seriously  of  living 
it,  until  now  that  the  results  had  been  shown  him, 
as  mortal  eyes  were  never  given  before  to  see. 
That  was  it;  men  required  more  than  words. 
Would  something  happen  to  bring  to  all  men  at 
last  the  transfiguring  facts  as  they  had  been 
brought  to  him  in  the  open  boat — squarely,  leis 
urely,  one  by  one*?  He  was  not  different  from 
many  men.  Given  the  spectacle  of  the  fruits  of 
desire  and  the  fruits  of  compassion  side  by  side, 
as  he  had  been  forced  to  regard  them — any  one 
would  understand. 

The  woman  was  one  of  those  who  had  got  it 
all  long  ago.  She  had  ceased  to  speak  of  it  much, 
but  had  put  it  into  action.  The  child  was  a  part 
of  her  action,  and  his  own  love  for  her — that  new 
emotion,  deeper  than  life  to  him.  She  had  mainly 
ceased  to  speak.  .  .  .  Action  and  not  speech  had 
been  the  way  of  Fleury,  his  main  life-theme,  his 
first  and  last  words.  Formerly  Fleury  had  spoken, 
and  then  emerged  into  the  world  of  action.  It 

[199] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 

had  been  tremendous  action — for  them.  These 
things  never  die. 

"That's  the  beauty  of  them,"  he  said  aloud. 
"These  things  never  die." 

"You  were  thinking  of  him?"  the  Faraway 
Woman  said. 

The  Formalhaut  left  them  at  Auckland — in 
sular,  high  and  breezy  between  its  harbours  and 
warm  to  the  heart,  from  the  southern  summer. 
They  took  the  train  to  Hamilton,  near  where  she 
had  lived.  .  .  . 

"It  seems  so  long  since  I  was  a  part  of  the  life 
here,"  she  told  him,  as  they  climbed  a  hill  by  the 
long  road — the  same  upon  which  Olga's  Guest 
had  come,  "and  yet  it  really  isn't.  You  can  see 
• — how  little  the  Gleam  is.  He  was  born  here. 
.  .  .  There  was  so  much  to  learn.  It  has  been  like 
a  quick  review  of  all  life.  When  I  think  of  it — 
and  feel  the  child  alive,  unhurt — oh,  do  you  know 
what  it  makes  me  want  to  do*?" 

Bellair  was  thinking  of  Fleury.  He  sensed  her 
emotion,  as  he  shook  his  head. 

"It  makes  me  want  to  work  for  you." 

Bellair  placed  her  saying  to  the  account  of  her 
fine  zeal  for  the  good  of  the  nearest.  He  was 
very  far  from  seeing  anything  heroic  in  his  part 
of  the  ten  days.  .  .  .  They  had  paused  on  the 
little  hill  back  of  the  settlement  where  she  had 
lived.  With  all  her  coming  home,  she  met  no 

[200] 


THE     STONE      HOUSE!     I 

acquaintance  while  he  was  with  her.  It  was  as 
if  she  had  come  to  look,  not  to  enter.  .  .  .  But 
there  were  two  days  in  which  she  went  forward 
alone,  and  Bellair  got  a  foretaste  of  what  it  would 
mean  to  be  separated.  It  called  to  him  all  the 
strength  that  he  had  earned.  .  .  .  The  Faraway 
Woman  came  back  to  Hamilton  where  he  waited 
— as  one  who  had  hastened.  The  child  was 
asleep,  and  they  walked  out  into  the  streets  to 
gether.  .  .  . 

They  were  alone  again  as  in  that  first  night  on 
board  the  Formalhaut  when  Fleury  left  them. 

"Do  you  want  to  stay  to  make  your  house  near 
the  Hamilton  road*?"  he  asked. 

She  regarded  him  quietly,  her  eyes  fixed  upon 
his  face  with  an  incommunicable  yearning. 

"No." 

"Do  you  mean  to  stay  in  New  Zealand?" 

Again  she  held  him  with  her  eyes,  before  an 
swering  : 

"It  may  be  well  for  me  here,  as  anywhere.  I 
could  not  stay  in  America." 

The  sun  was  setting.  It  was  she  who  broke  the 
silence : 

"You  must  go  away1?" 

"Yes.     You  knew  that  from  him?" 

"From  what  he  said — yes." 

"He  told  me  not  to  stay  too  long." 

"Perhaps  he  saw  it  all.  Perhaps  he  saw  some 
thing  that  would  keep  you." 

[201] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 


"He  saw  a  very  great  deal." 

They  had  been  gone  two  hours.  Her  steps 
quickened,  when  she  thought  of  the  child.  .  .  . 
"Yes,  I  may  as  well  stay  in  Auckland,"  she  said. 
"Do  you  know,  I  should  like  to  stay  by  the  sea  — 
to  be  near  it,  for  remembering  -  " 

That  seemed  to  come  very  close  to  Bellair's 
conviction  —  that  her  whole  life  was  turned  to  the 
saint  who  had  passed. 

"A  little  house  by  the  sea,"  he  said,  his  mind 
picturing  it  eagerly  to  relieve  the  greater  matter. 

"Just  what  I  was  thinking  —  a  little  place  out 
of  Auckland  on  the  bluffs  —  overlooking  Waite- 
mata  —  where  one  could  see  the  ships  coming 


"Will  you  let  me  help  you  find  it,  and  arrange 
your  affairs?" 

"Nothing  could  be  happier  for  me  —  if  you 
would." 

"We'll  go  back  to  Auckland  to-night,  and  start 
out  looking  from  there." 

Mainly  they  followed  the  shore  during  their 
days  of  search;  but  sometimes  they  found  woods 
and  little  towns.  There  was  no  coming  to  the 
end  of  her;  she  put  on  fresh  perfections  every 
day,  and  there  were  moments  in  which  he  was 
meshed  in  his  own  stupidity  for  not  seeing  the 
splendour  of  her  at  the  first  moment.  He  became 
possessed  of  a  healthful  wonder  about  women  — 
.how  men  like  himself  wait  for  years  for  some  corn- 

[2021 


THE     STONE      HOUSE!     I 


panion-soul,  finally  believing  her  to  be  in  the  sky, 
only  to  find  that  the  nearest  was  waiting  all  the 
time.  The  world  is  so  full  of  illusions,  and  a 
man's  mind  is  darkest  when  it  seems  most  clear. 

The  days  were  like  entering  one  walled  garden 
after  another,  always  her  spirit  vanishing  at  the 
far  gate.  Beside  him  was  a  strong  frail  comrade, 
loving  the  water  and  air  and  sky  and  wood,  as 
only  a  natural  woman  can  love  them — her  eyes 
shining  softly,  her  lips  parted  and  red  as  the 
sleeping  child's.  He  was  struck  with  the  miracle 
of  her  mouth's  freshness.  It  was  like  the  mouth 
of  a  city-bred  woman,  a  woman  who  had  forced 
her  way  for  years  through  the  difficult  passages 
of  a  man's  world,  who  had  met  the  fighting  of 
the  open,  and  the  heavier-line  fighting  of  solitude. 
.  .  .  Here  Bellair's  diffidence  intervened.  More 
over,  it  was  a  mouth  that  could  say  unerring 
things. 

"She  is  a  fine  weave,"  he  would  say,  after  the 
partings  at  night. 

She  held  through  every  test.  The  enthralling 
advance  guard  never  failed — that  winged  im 
mortal  something  ahead.  Often  in  some  little  inn 
or  in  the  hotel  at  Auckland  during  the  nights,  he 
found  himself  in  rebellion  because  he  could  not 
go  to  her.  Always  in  the  open  boat  he  had  awak 
ened  to  find  her  there,  and  on  the  night  that 
Fleury  passed,  she  had  asked  to  have  him  within 
call — but  those  times  were  gone.  The  world  had 

[203] 


LOT      &      COMPANY 

intervened  that  little  bit.  .  .  .  There  was  one 
summer  day  and  a  bit  of  forest  to  enter,  a  moment 
surpassing  all.  Her  arms  and  fingers,  her  eyes 
and  breast  were  all  fused  with  emotions.  She  gave 
him  back  his  boyhood  that  afternoon  in  a  solemn 
wordless  ceremony,  but  all  his  diffidence  of  boy 
hood  came  with  it. 

The  woods  were  full  of  fairies  to  her;  there 
were  meanings  for  her  eyes  in  the  drift  of  the  wind 
over  the  brown  pools.  She  caught  the  woodland 
whispers,  was  a  part  of  sweet,  low  vibrations  of 
the  air.  .  .  .  Her  eyes  had  come  up  to  his,  fear 
less  and  tender;  yet  for  the  life  of  him,  he  could 
not  have  been  sure  that  they  wanted  anything 
he  could  give.  For  the  first  time  he  marvelled 
now  at  the  genius  of  self-protection  which  women 
have  put  on,  instinct  by  instinct,  throughout  all 
this  age  of  man,  this  age  of  muscle  and  brain,  in 
which  the  driving  spirit  of  it  all  has  no  voice. 
.  .  .  There  was  one  branch  above  her  that  was 
like  hawthorn,  and  full  of  buds.  The  little  In 
verness  cape  that  she  wore  was  tossed  back,  and 
her  arms  were  held  up  to  the  branches.  .  .  . 
Strangely  that  instant  he  thought  of  her  story — 
the  coming  of  The  Guest — the  thought  she  had 
held  all  the  years,  the  strange  restless  beauty  of  its 
ideal — the  mothering  beauty  of  it  that  seemed  to 
him  now  endless  in  power.  Such  a  mystery  came 
to  him  from  her  arms — as  if  she  were  holding 
them  up  to  receive  perfection,  some  great  spiritual 

[204] 


THE     STONE      HOUSE!     I 


gift.  ...  It  was  startlingly  native  to  her,  this 
expectancy — the  pure  receptivity  of  it,  and  the 
thought  of  beauty  in  her  mind.  A  woman  could 
command  heaven  with  that  gesture,  he  thought, 
and  call  to  earth  an  archangel — if  her  ideal  were 
pure  enough. 

A  sudden  gust  of  love  came  over  him  for  her 
child.  He  thought  he  had  loved  it  before,  but  it 
was  startling  now,  filling  him,  turning  his  steps 
back  toward  the  place  where  it  lay.  .  .  . 


And  all  the  time  that  they  were  searching  widely 
from  Auckland  for  their  house,  a  little  English 
woman,  growing  old,  sat  waiting  for  them  within 
an  hour's  ride  from  the  city.  They  found  her  at 
last  and  her  stone  cottage,  rarely  attractive  in  its 
neglect ;  and  from  the  door-yard,  an  Odessian  vista 
of  sky  and  harbour  and  lifted  shore-line.  .  .  . 
They  had  even  passed  it  before,  their  eyes 
turned  farther  afield.  Bellair  couldn't  ignore  the 
analogy  of  the  nearest  woman,  nor  the  stories  of 
all  the  great  spiritual  quests — how  the  fleeces  on 
a  man's  doorstep  turn  golden,  if  he  can  only 
see. 

"I  knew  some  one  would  come,"  the  little 
woman  said.  She  had  a  mole  on  her  nose  and 
eyes  that  twinkled  brightly.  "In  fact,  I  prayed." 

Bellair  smiled  and  thought  of  Fleury's  saying 
— that  those  who  turn  back  two  thousand  years 

[205] 


LOT      &      COMPANY 


would  find  Him.  .  .  .  She  had  kept  a  boarding- 
house,  and  now  the  work  was  too  much.  Besides, 
the  children  of  a  younger  sister  back  in  the  home 
in  Essex  were  calling  to  her. 

"They  need  me  in  England,"  she  repeated. 
"And  here,  I  have  been  unable  to  keep  up  the  little 
house.  I  am  too  old  now.  My  young  men  were 
so  dear  about  it,  but  I  was  not  making  them  com 
fortable.  One's  heart  turns  home  at  the 

close "    She  thought  they  did  not  understand; 

and  explained  all  the  meanings  carefully — how  in 
age,  the  temporal  needs  are  not  so  keen,  and  the 
mind  wanders  back  to  the  elder  places.  .  .  .  Bel- 
lair  stood  apart,  knowing  that  the  two  women 
could  manage  better  alone.  .  .  .  The  cottage 
faced  the  east  a  little  to  northward,  and  had  been 
built  of  the  broken  rocks  of  the  bluff  and  shore, 
its  walls  twenty  inches  thick  and  plastered  on 
the  stone  within.  The  interior  surprised  them 
with  its  size,  two  bedrooms  facing  the  sea  and 
two  behind,  beside  the  living  room  (for  dining, 
too,  according  to  the  early  design)  and  the  kitchen. 
They  took  it  as  it  was,  furniture  and  all,  and 
loved  the  purchase. 

For  several  days  she  remained  with  them, 
helped  and  explained  and  amplified — suggesting 
much  paint.  Each  day  for  an  hour  or  so,  there 
were  tears.  She  had  found  her  going  not  so  easy, 
and  the  process  was  slow  to  accustom  herself  to 
the  long  voyage;  the  sense  of  detachment  could 

[206] 


THE      STONE      HOUSE!     I 


not  be  hurried.  She  wanted  them  to  see  her  whole 
plan  of  the  place.  Her  dream  had  been  to  have 
evergreens  cut  in  patterns  and  flower-beds  in  stars 
and  crescents.  Meanwhile  with  her  years  had 
grown  up  about  her  the  wildest  and  most  natural 
garniture  of  the  stone  cottage;  vines  and  shrubs, 
the  pines  putting  on  a  sumptuousness  of  low 
foliage  altogether  unapproved. 

Gradually  it  was  all  forgotten  but  the  long 
voyage,  and  Bellair  could  help  in  making  the  de 
tails  of  that  as  simple  and  desirable  as  possible. 
In  fact,  he  went  with  her  to  the  ship.  .  .  . 

"She  was  dear  to  us,  and  we  shall  miss  her 
always,"  the  Faraway  Woman  said  that  night. 
.  .  .  She  would  never  come  back.  It  was  a  part 
ing,  but  the  very  lightness  of  it  moved  them. 
They  wondered  if  they  had  done  all  they  could. 

"I'm  so  glad  the  means  were  not  at  hand  for 
her  to  paint  the  stone-work,"  Bellair  said  firmly. 

"I'm  afraid  she  would  think  we  lack  interest," 
the  woman  added,  as  she  glanced  at  the  smoky 
beams  of  the  ceiling.  The  years  had  softened 
them  perfectly. 

"She  wanted  them  washed  the  very  first  thing," 
said  Bellair,  "and  varnished.  If  she  had  stayed 
much  longer  we  would  have  been  forced  to  paint 
something." 

In  the  days  that  followed,  a  softness  and  sum 
mery  bloom  came  continually  to  the  Faraway's 
Woman's  eyes.  His  heart  quickened  when  she 
[207] 


LOT     &      COMPANY 


turned  to  him.    They  moved  in  and  out  from  the 
cottage  to  grounds,  again  and  again. 

"It's  unreal  to  me,"  she  would  say.  "I  wonder 
if  it  will  ever  seem  ours?  I  know  it  won't,  while 
you  are  away.  I  could  live  here  fifty  years  until 
I  seemed  a  part  of  the  cottage  and  grass  and 
trees,  and  I  would  feel  a  pilgrim  resting " 

"It  is  part  of  you  now,  and  always  has  been," 
he  said.  "You  are  at  home  on  high  ground  and 
you  must  have  the  sea-distance.  They  belong  to 
you.  I  think  that  is  what  made  you  so  hard  for 
me  to  understand." 

"Was  I  hard  for  you?" 

"I  was  so  fresh  from  the  little  distances  and 
the  short-sight  of  things — from  looking 
down " 

"I  wonder  if  any  one  ever  was  so  willing  to  be 
seen  on  his  worst  side?"  she  asked.  "I  really  be 
lieve  you  know  very  little  about  yourself.  .  .  . 
He  saw — the  real  side." 

"He  saw  good  everywhere,"  said  Bellair. 

"...  I  wonder  why  I  was  strange  to  you  at 
first?"  she  repeated,  after  a  moment.  "You  were 
not  strange  to  me." 

"Not  when  I  spent  so  much  time  at  the  great 
cane  chair?" 

"No.  You  seemed  to  be  studying.  I  could 
see  that  you  didn't  belong  there.  You  appeared 
to  be  interested  in  it  all — as  if  he  were  a  part 

of  the  ship " 

[208] 


THE      STONE      HOUSE!      I 


"And  you  didn't  seem  to  belong  at  all  to  my 
eyes,"  he  told  her.  "You  belonged  out  in  the 
distances  of  ocean.  You  came  closer  and  closer 
during  the  days  in  the  open  boat — but  here  you 
belong.  It  seems  to  me  that  you  have  come  home 
— and  how  I  wish  I  could  stay,  too." 

"I  wish  you  could  stay — but  I  know  that  there 
is  unfinished  work  in  New  York." 

"I  wonder  how  he  knew1?"  Bellair  questioned. 

"He  saw  very  clearly.  He  was  not  flesh  at  all 
— that  last  day " 

"After  the  night — when  he  prayed.  .  .  .  You 
saw  him  that  night*?" 

"Yes." 

Her  innate  sense  of  beauty  startled  him  afresh 
every  day.  All  that  he  idealised  was  an  open  book 
to  her.  Bellair  had  planned  his  house  in  the  New 
York  room.  The  greatest  houses  are  planned  so, 
by  those  who  suffer  and  are  confined.  It  had  not 
come  to  him  in  the  form  of  this  stone  cottage  by 
the  sea.  This  was  not  his  dream  that  had  come 
true  here,  although  in  many  ways  it  was  fairer 
than  his  dream.  Very  plainly,  this  little  rock- 
bound  eyrie  was  of  her  fashioning — the  very 
atoms  of  it,  drawing  together  to  conform  with  the 
picture  in  her  mind.  He  loved  the  place  better 
so.  Perhaps  her  thought  of  a  home  had  been  the 
stronger. 

"It  is  almost  perfect  now,"  she  would  say. 
"The  neglect  has  made  it  right.  A  few  roses,  some 
[209] 


LOT     &      COMPANY 


bee-hives,  vines  and  perennials — the  rest  is  just 
clearing  and  cleansing.  I  could  go  over  all  the 
leaves  and  branches  with  a  soapy  sponge.  The 
rest  is  to  prune  and  thin  and  cleanse — so  the  sun 
light  is  not  shut  from  anywhere  altogether — so  it 
all  can  breathe " 

He  caught  the  picture  in  her  mind — foliage  cut 
away  for  the  play  of  sun  and  wind  everywhere 
— the  chaste  and  enduring  beauty  of  leaf  and 
stone  and  moving  water.  And  now  appeared  a 
bit  of  her  nature  quite  as  real : 

"And  then  those  extra  two  rooms,  I  could  rent 
them  and  give  board " 

"Oh,  but  you  don't  have  to." 

"I  have  always  had  much  to  do.  I  must  have 
work  now." 

She  had  no  realisation  of  property;  material 
poverty  was  a  part  of  her  temperament.  She  was 
superbly  well,  and  could  only  remain  so  by  the 
expenditure  of  ample  energy.  Bellair  saw  the 
Martha  soul,  the  mother  of  men,  a  breadgiver. 
He  thought  of  the  passion  of  men  for  the  vine- 
women,  and  of  the  clinging  sons  they  bear.  .  .  . 
He  lingered  over  a  ship,  and  another.  They 
toiled  together  like  two  peasants  in  the  open,  the 
baby  sitting  in  the  sun,  the  house  ashine  within. 
She  would  have  only  the  simple  things.  She 
loved  fine  textures,  but  only  of  the  lasting  fab 
rics  in  woods  and  wares.  She  was  content  to 
carry  water  and  trim  lamps.  She  loved  the  stones 

[210] 


THE      STONE      HOUSE!     I 


and  the  low  open  fires.  Often  she  turned  away 
seaward,  as  he  had  seen  her  from  the  Jade's  rail, 
and  from  the  bow  seat  of  the  open  boat.  Once 
in  the  garden,  he  made  the  child  laugh,  to  bring 
back  her  eyes,  and  she  said: 

"I  love  it  so  here,  but  I  don't  want  to  love  it, 
so  that  it  would  hurt  terribly,  if  it  were  taken 
away." 

This  was  but  one  side.  There  were  other  mo 
ments,  in  which  Bessie  and  New  York  and  all 
that  he  and  the  Faraway  Woman  had  been, 
seemed  fused  into  a  ball  of  mist  whirling  away, 
and  they  stood  together,  man  and  woman,  touch 
ing  sanity  at  last  in  a  world  of  power  and  glory. 
It  was  not  then  a  time  for  words.  .  .  .  Once  their 
hands  went  out  together,  and  holding  for  a 
moment,  Bellair  had  the  strange  sense  of  the  self 
sinking  from  him.  He  could  not  feel  his  hand 
or  any  part  of  his  being — as  if  it  were  a  part  of 
her,  two  creatures  blent  into  one,  and  an  inde 
scribable  rush  of  something  different  than  physical 
vitality. 

And  once  sitting  with  her  under  the  lamp  in 
the  evening,  he  drew  again  that  sense  of  peace 
that  had  come  in  the  queer  darkness  on  the  deck 
of  the  Jade.  It  had  to  do  with  the  mountains — 
as  if  they  had  finished  with  the  valleys,  and  were 
ascending  together  in  the  strong  light  of  the  moun 
tains. 

And    then    there    was    passion — that    plain, 

[an] 


LOT      &      COMPANY 

straight  earth  drive.  Bellair  was  strange  about 
this  with  the  Faraway  Woman.  This  passion 
was  like  the  return  of  an  old  hunting  companion, 
so  natural  in  the  wilds,  but  strange  and  out  of 
place  in  his  newly-ordered  life.  It  had  come  from 
the  Unknowable,  and  he  had  supposed  it  lost  in 
that  wilderness.  It  dismayed  him  that  she  should 
call  it  forth,  but  she  called  from  him  everything 
day  by  day,  and  no  day  the  same.  He  had  lost 
much  of  the  old,  but  not  that  passion.  And  the 
nature  of  it  which  she  called  had  a  bewildering 
beauty.  .  .  .  But  there  was  much  to  keep  the  old 
native  of  the  wilds  from  really  entering.  The 
world  would  have  called  Bellair's  idealism  naive; 
and  there  was  something  of  Fleury  in  the  very 
solution  of  their  lives — not  a  finger-print  of  pas 
sion  in  all  that  relation.  There  was  the  Un 
finished  Story  of  Ogla's  Guest.  Finally  there  was 
the  Gleam. 

Life  was  very  full  and  rare  to  Bellair,  but 
there  seemed  always  a  new  ship  in  the  harbour 
flying  Blue  Peter  for  California.  ...  In  the 
main,  they  forgot  themselves,  as  unwatched  man 
and  woman,  slept  under  the  same  roof  and  had 
their  food  together;  at  least,  Bellair  forgot  it  for 
hours  at  a  time.  It  seemed  the  very  nature  of 
life;  the  purity  of  it  all  so  obvious.  .  .  .  One 
afternoon  he  came  up  from  the  city  in  a  cool 
south  wind;  a  grey  afternoon,  the  sunset  watery 
and  lemon-hued.  He  was  thinking  of  the  ship 

[212] 


THE      STONE      HOUSE!     I 


that  would  float  Blue  Peter  to-morrow.  The 
homely  scent  of  damp  bark  burning  quickened  his 
senses,  as  he  crossed  the  yard,  and  he  heard  her 
singing  to  the  child.  Somehow  the  woodsmoke 
had  brought  back  to  him  a  Spring  day  in  the 
northern  woods — grey  light  and  dark  pools,  all 
foliage  baby-new,  a  song-sparrow  pair  trilling 
back  and  forth  from  edge  to  open.  .  .  . 

He  saw  her  in  one  of  the  rare  flashes  of  life. 
She  was  sitting  by  the  fireplace,  the  nearest  win 
dow  across  the  room.  Her  figure  was  softened  in 
the  deep  grey  light  to  the  pure  sensousness  of 
motherhood — except  her  face,  hands  and  boots, 
and  that  which  she  held.  These  were  mellowed 
in  the  faintest  orange  glow  from  the  firelight. 
Her  back  was  curved  forward,  her  face  bent  to 
the  baby's  head,  held  high  in  the  hollow  of  her 
arms.  The  dress  was  caught  tightly  about  her 
ankles — a  covering  pliant  almost  as  a  night-robe, 
but  that  was  a  mystery  of  the  shadows.  She  was 
like  the  figure  of  some  woman  he  had  seen  some 
where — some  woman  of  the  river-banks,  but  this 
a  Madonna  of  the  firelight.  He  passed  on,  and 
waited  before  speaking. 

3 

They  went  a  last  time  to  the  city.  .  .  .  There 
was  a  place  for  a  chair,  and  they  had  seen 
an  old  urn  in  a  by-street  which  belonged  near 
the  Spring.  They  felt  that  these  products  of 

[213] 


LOT     &      COMPANY 


men  had  to  be  just  so,  and  that  they  had 
earned  a  great  boon  in  being  given  a  part  at 
stone  cottage.  The  things  that  were  brought  there 
must  endure;  must  reason  together  in  long  leisure 
concord,  putting  on  the  same  inner  hue  at  the 
last  and  mellowing  together  as  old  friends,  or  old 
mates.  This  time,  Bellair's  eyes  did  not  meet  the 
city  quite  as  before;  it  was  not  as  a  stranger  ex 
actly,  who  rambles  through  a  port  while  his  ship 
lies  in  the  offing.  His  real  berth  was  an  hour's 
ride  back  from  the  city  and  made  of  stone.  Per 
haps  later  he  would  find  work  to  do  here.  .  .  . 
A  child  passed  them  in  the  store,  and  brought  the 
change  after  their  purchase — a  boy  of  twelve  or 
fourteen,  his  face  old  with  care.  It  made  Bellair 
think  of  Davy  Acton  at  Lot  &  Company's.  They 
bought  a  bit  of  glass,  a  bit  of  silver,  some 
linen  and  a  rug,  and  rode  home  with  their  arms 
full. 

Another  letter  had  come  from  one  of  the  Island 
headquarters  of  Stackhouse,  in  answer  to  Bel- 
lair's  inquiry  concerning  affairs.  The  papers  in 
the  wallet  had  given  him  clues  to  the  various 
insular  interests;  and  the  replies,  without  excep 
tion,  represented  the  attitudes  of  agents  ready  and 
open  to  authority  from  without.  Stackhouse  had 
left  no  centre  of  force  that  appeared  to  have  vital 
ity  enough  to  rise  in  its  own  responsibility.  Bel- 
lair  saw  that  sooner  or  later  he  must  make  a  visit 
to  these  different  interests,  and  that  the  place  of 

[214] 


THE      STONE      HOUSE*.     I 


the  wallet  for  the  time  being,  at  least,  amounted  to 
headquarters.  He  wrote  as  explicitly  as  possible 
in  reply  to  the  letters,  promised  to  call  in  due 
course,  established  a  freedom  where  his  judgment 
permitted,  but  felt  the  whole  vast  business  very 
loosely  in  hand.  New  York  was  first,  and  it  be 
came  very  clear  to  him,  especially  on  this  night, 
that  New  York  must  be  entered  upon  without 
further  delay.  There  was  a  thrill  of  dismay  in 
the  thought  of  the  weeks  that  had  passed,  and 
the  dreaming.  Dreams  were  good.  He  had 
needed  these  days;  great  adjustments  and  heal 
ings  had  taken  place.  It  had  been  the  pleasant 
lull  between  the  old  and  new,  the  only  rest  his  life 
had  known,  in  fact.  All  its  beauty  was  massed 
into  the  period — but  the  dreams  must  be  turned 
into  action  now. 

A  man  may  stay  just  so  long  in  joy.  There 
are  moments  in  every  life  when  the  hour  strikes 
for  parting.  The  lover  does  well  to  leave  his 
lady  then  quickly.  There  is  an  understanding  in 
the  world  that  the  woman  invariably  whispers, 
Stay,  but  very  often  an  organisation  of  force  that 
makes  austerity  possible,  does  not  come  from  the 
man  alone.  If  the  moment  of  parting  passes,  the 
two  still  lingering  together,  a  shadow  enters  be 
tween  them,  blurring  their  faces  for  each  other's 
eyes,  dimming  the  dream. 

It  does  not  come  from  without.  The  train 
missed;  the  passage  paid  for  and  not  connected, 


LOT     &     COMPANY 

the  column  that  marches  away,  one  set  broken, 
the  sentry  post  to  which  a  strange  figure  is  called 
— these  are  but  matters  to  laugh  at  afterward. 
The  shadow  comes  between  them  from  their  own 
failure.  It  is  slow  to  lift.  In  the  final  elevation 
of  romance,  there  shows  one  sunken  length.  .  .  . 
There  is  the  moment  of  meeting  and  the  moment 
of  parting;  that  which  lies  between,  whether 
an  hour  or  generation,  forms  but  the  equal  third, 
for  the  great  love  intervals  of  human  kind  are 
not  measured  by  time,  but  by  the  opening  of 
the  doors  of  the  heart.  By  the  very  laws  of  our 
being,  the  doors  draw  together  against  rapture 
prolonged.  The  man  who  crosses  the  world  to 
live  one  day  with  his  sweetheart,  sees  her  at  last 
in  the  doorway  or  the  try  sting-place  as  he  cannot 
see  her  again;  and  in  the  tear  of  parting,  some 
thing  different  of  her,  something  that  has  been 
occulted,  clears  magically  for  his  eyes.  It  must 
not  blind  him  to  remain,  for  it  is  her  gift  to  abide 
with  him  over  the  divide.  It  passes,  not  to  come 
again  if  he  remains;  rapture  falls  into  indulgence; 
the  fibre  of  integrity  weakens  and  lets  them  down 
into  mere  mortals.  Man  is  not  ready  for  the  real 
revelation  of  romance  in  whom  a  master  does  not 
arise  at  the  stroke. 

That  night  there  was  a  mew  at  the  door.  They 
had  finished  tea  and  were  sitting  by  the  fire.  The 
woman  opened  the  door  and  a  young  tabby-puss 

[216] 


THE     STONE      HOUSE!     1 


walked  leisurely  in,  moved  in  a  circle  about  the 
room,  tail  held  high.  Chair  and  table  and  lounge, 
she  brushed  against,  standing  upon  her  toes,  eyes 
blinking  at  the  fire.  The  woman  brought  a  saucer 
of  milk.  The  visitor  drank,  as  if  that  were  all 
very  well,  but  that  she  could  have  done  well 
enough  until  breakfast.  Apparently  it  was  not 
her  way  to  land  upon  friends  in  a  starving  condi 
tion.  Before  the  fire,  she  now  sat,  adding  a  point 
to  her  toilet  from  time  to  time,  inspecting  it  care 
fully  and  long.  Finally  she  turned  to  the  woman, 
hopped  upon  her  knee  and  settled  to  doze.  She 
had  accepted  them,  and  they  called  her  Elsie. 

"Little-Else-to-do,"  said  the  woman. 

They  stood  beside  the  child's  bed  later  that 
night. 

It  rained,  and  the  home  closed  in  upon  them 
with  its  cheer  and  humble  beauty.  He  saw  her 
hand  now  in  everything — even  the  rungs  of  the 
chairs  shone  in  the  firelight.  The  hearth  was 
swept.  Her  face — it  was  a  place  of  power,  and 
such  a  fusion  of  tenderness  was  there,  the  eyes 
pure  and  merciful.  All  that  he  had  known  before 
her  coming  was  unfinished,  explanatory.  She  had 
shown  him  what  a  human  adult  woman  should 
be  in  this  year  of  our  Lord.  His  soul  yearned 
to  her;  his  whole  life  nestling  to  this  place  of 
hers — as  her  stone  cot  nestled  to  the  cliff.  .  .  . 
She  was  always  very  quiet  about  her  love  for  the 
child  when  he  was  near.  That  was  because  he 

[217] 


LOT      &      COMPANY 

loved  the  Gleam  so  well.  .  .  .  Yet  he  had  seen 
the  Firelight  Madonna. 

"You  have  made  it  all  I  can  do — to  go  away," 
he  said. 

"I  have  thought  of  that — I  might  have  made 
it  easier.  I  have  thought  of  that,"  she  repeated. 
"And  yet — we  were  so  tired.  We  seemed  to  need 
to  be  ourselves.  It  has  been  beautiful — to  be 
ourselves " 

It  seemed  to  him  that  she  came  nearer,  but 
that  was  impossible  for  the  child  was  between. 
.  .  .  Just  then  his  mind  finished  the  other  pic 
ture — of  her  arms  held  up  to  the  hawthorn  buds 
— a  babe  of  his  own  in  those  arms!  He  would 
have  fought  to  prevent  its  coming,  but  it  visualised 
of  itself.  Had  it  been  that  which  enchanted  the 
woodland?  .  .  .  He  was  silent.  She  had  become 
even  more  to  him  for  this  instant.  He  would  not 
call  it  other  than  beautiful,  now  that  it  had  come. 
She  was  more  than  ever  the  heart  of  mystery — 
the  Quest.  She  knew  all  these  things — love  and 
maternity  she  knew;  even  the  passionate  fluting 
of  Pan  had  quickened  her  eyes;  and  where  she 
:abode,  there  was  the  genius  of  Home. 

So  slowly  had  it  come — perhaps  this  w.as  not 
:all.  For  weeks  he  had  stood  by — day  after  day, 
the  heart  of  her  becoming  more  spacious  and 
eloquent;  one  miracle  of  the  woman  after  an 
other — finally,  to-night  the  mystery  of  all  life 
#bout  her,  for  his  eyes.  Yet  to  her  it  was  np 

[218] 


THE      STONE      HOUSE:      I 


mystery;  she  was  of  it,  rhythmically  so.  She 
knew  the  dream — and  the  life  that  comes  at  last 
to  quicken  it.  She  could  love;  she  could  live;  she 
could  wait.  She  loved  God — but  loved  Nature, 
too.  She  was  spirit,  but  flesh,  too.  She  was 
powerful  in  two  worlds.  .  .  . 

So  Bellair  stood  with  bowed  head,  and  though 
Bessie  was  forgotten,  Fleury  was  not.  It  was 
still  with  him  that  Fleury  and  the  Faraway 
Woman  were  fashioned  for  each  other.  .  .  .  "She 
may  be  so  wonderful  to  me,  because  she  trusts  me 

to  understand "  such  was  the  essence  of  his 

fear.  It  kept  his  heart  dumb.  .  .  .  That  night 
she  brought  a  pitcher  of  water  and  placed  it 
upon  the  hearth,  looked  up  and  found  him  watch 
ing. 

"For  the  fairies,"  she  said. 

That  changed  him  a  little,  brought  her  nearer 
to  words  of  his;  though  the  effort  to  speak  was 
like  lifting  a  bridge.  She  was  leaving  for  her 
room  when  he  managed: 

"Day  after  to-morrow — the  steamer.  May  we 
not  talk  to-night?" 

He  saw  her  stop.  Then  she  was  coming  toward 
him  so  gladly. 

"Yes — you  want  the  rest  of  the  story?" 

"Yes.  ...  I  have  been  sorry  that  lie  couldn't 
hear  it " 

She  stood  before  him,  tall  and  white. 

[219] 


LOT     &      COMPANY 


"I  think  you  are  like  me,"  she  said  in  a  moment. 
"I  think  you  have  something  behind  you  that  you 
do  not  tell — something  that  made  you  what  you 
are — yet  greater  than  you  seem  to  yourself.  ,  .  . 
I  would  have  told  you  while  he  was  with  us,  but 
you  know  how  the  days  passed  and  we  could  not 
hold  our  thoughts  together.  Then  there  were 
times  when  we  could  not  even  use  our  voices.  .  .  . 
Do  you  know  that  the  world  is  wonderful — that 
the  thousands  about  us  do  not  even  dream  how 
wonderful  it  is — how  tremendous  even  miseries 
are?  Sometimes  I  think  that  the  tragedies  we 
meet  are  our  greatest  hours." 

"You  have  met  them,"  he  said,  a  part  of  her 
spirit  almost.  "I  have  seen  them  in  your  eyes. 
It  gave  me  the  sense  of  shelter  with  you  and 
limitless  understanding " 

"I  am  thankful  for  that,"  she  whispered. 
"When  we  have  understanding,  we  have  every 
thing.  Those  who  in  their  childhood  are  made 
to  suffer  horribly  are  often  the  ones  who  reach 
understanding.  Sometimes  they  suffer  too  much 
and  become  dulled  and  dumb.  Sometimes  in  the 
very  ache  of  their  story,  which  can  be  so  rarely 
told,  they  risk  the  telling  to  some  one  not  ready.  It 
aches  so,  as  its  stays  and  stays  untold.  Oh,  the 
whole  world  craves  understanding,  and  yet  if  we 
tell  our  story  to  one  who  is  not  ready — we  hurt 
them  and  ourselves,  and  add  unto  our  misery. 
There  are  moments  set  apart  in  life  in  which  one 

[220] 


THE      STONE      HOUSE!     I 


finds  understanding,  but  the  world  presses  in 
the  next  day,  and  the  story  does  not  look  so  well. 
The  spirit  of  it  fades  and  the  actions  do  not  seem 
pure  when  the  spirit  is  out — so  one  loses  a  loved 
friend.  Oh,  I  am  talking  vaguely.  It  is  not  my 
way  to  talk  vaguely — but  to-night — it  is  like  a 
division  of  roads,  and  a  story  is  to  be  told " 

"Do  you  think  the  story  will  diminish  in  my 
mind  to-morrow*?"  he  asked. 

"No — not  you.  I  have  seen  you  through  the 
sunlight  and  the  dark  looking  into  my  eyes  for 
it.  If  I  thought  it  would  diminish  in  your  mind 
— yes,  I  would  tell  it  just  the  same.  It  must  be 
told — but  life  would  not  be  the  same.  Even  this, 
our  little  stone  cot,  would  not  be  the  same.  I 
should  have  to  become  harder  and  harder  to  hold 
— to  follow  the  Gleam 

"...  I  shall  be  Olga  in  the  rest  of  the  story," 
she  was  saying.  "For  I  am  Olga.  .  .  .  The 
truth  is,  I  have  no  other  name.  There  is  one  that 
I  used,  and  another  that  I  formerly  used — but 
they  are  not  mine.  You  shall  see.  .  .  .  My 
father  prospered  with  the  sheep-raising,  and 
slowly  on  the  long  road  that  you  have  seen,  houses 
came  one  by  one,  until  at  last  there  was  a  village 
about  us.  My  father  was  like  the  village  father, 
and  my  mother  the  source  of  its  wisdom  in  doctor 
ing  and  maternal  affairs — she  had  learned  by 
bringing  forth.  But  I  was  not  of  them — they  all 
saw  that.  The  coming  of  plenty,  the  coming  of 

[221] 


LOT     &      COMPANY 


the  people,  the  coming  of  men  to  woo  my  sisters, 
and  the  maidens  my  brothers  brought  for  us  to 
see,  before  they  took  them  quite  away — none  of 
these  things  were  so  real  to  me  as  the  coming  of 
my  Guest  when  I  was  such  a  little  girl.  And 
none  remembered  that — not  even  my  mother. 
Until  I  ceased  to  speak  of  it,  they  tried  to  make 
me  think  it  was  a  dream.  But  I  knew  that  rap 
ture.  It  had  changed  me.  I  was  always  to  search 
for  it  again.  I  was  always  looking  for  another 
such  night — for  that  afterglow  again.  I  was  the 
last  child  and  the  silent  one. 

"But  all  that  had  to  do  with  children  was  inti 
mate  and  wonderful  to  me.  ...  I  remember  once 
when  we  were  all  girls  at  home  together,  and  they 
were  talking — each  of  what  she  should  have  for 
her  treasure  from  the  household — one  walnut,  one 
silver,  one  an  inlaid  desk — and  they  turned  to  me 
laughingly,  for  I  was  not  consulted  as  a  rule,  I 
said  I  wanted  the  little  hickory  cradle  in  an  upper 
closet.  It  was  one  of  those  household  days  which 
girls  remember.  .  .  .  All  was  happier  then.  The 
little  cradle  seemed  like  a  casket  in  which  jewels 
had  come  to  my  mother — seven  times.  We  had 
all  smiled  at  her  first  from  that  hickory  cradle. 
...  I  went  up  stairs  to  look  at  it — a  dim  place 
full  of  life  and  messages  to  me.  I  was  weak ;  my 
arms  ached;  and  it  was  so  dear  that  I  dare  not  say 
that  it  was  mine.  .  .  .  My  father  said  the  cradle 
must  belong  to  the  eldest  girl. 

[222] 


THE      STONE      HOUSE:     I 


"...  I  began  to  sense  the  terrible  actuality  of 
life  through  the  mating  of  Lois,  ten  years  older, 
with  a  countryman  who  came  for  her.  For  sis 
ters,  Lois  and  I  had  always  been  far  apart,  and 
this  stranger  who  wished  to  marry  her,  had  noth 
ing  to  do  with  life  as  I  dreamed  it — a  child  of 
twelve.  To  many,  Lois  was  the  loveliest  of  us — 
large,  calm,  dark  and  quiet,  very  well,  slow  of 
speech,  but  quick  to  smile.  Had  you  visited  our 
house  then,  you  would  have  remembered  my 
father's  patriarchal  air,  the  smile  of  Lois,  and  the 
maternity  that  brooded  over  us  all.  The  rest  you 
would  get  afterward — a  variety  of  young  people 
with  different  faults  and  attractions — I  the  grey 
one,  last  to  be  noted.  Lois  was  given  credit  for 
more  than  she  was.  I  do  not  love  brain  or  power, 
but  I  seem  to  love  courage.  Lois  had  something  to 
take  the  place  of  these — not  courage — and  no, 
not  power  nor  brain.  She  had  sensuousness  and 
appetite. 

"One  night  I  seemed  to  see  what  the  whole 
house  was  straining  for — a  kind  of  process  of 
marriage  continually  afoot.  Just  now  it  was 
Lois.  I  remember  my  father  being  called  into  the 
front  room  where  Lois  and  Collinge  had  been  for 
an  evening — his  face  beaming  when  he  came 
forth,  and  my  mother's  quiet  sanction.  There 
were  conferences  after  that,  dressmaking,  the  ar 
rangement  of  money  affairs.  And  I  was  suddenly 
ill  with  it.  To  me,  there  could  be  no  trade  or 

[223] 


LOT      &      COMPANY 


public  business.  To  me,  it  had  to  do  with  a  child 
and  that  was  consecrated  ground.  Oh,  you  must 
see  it  had  to  be  different.  I  wanted  it  like  a 
stroke  of  lightning.  I  did  not  understand  but  I 
wanted  it  like  that — like  a  flight  of  swans — and 
not  talk  and  property  transactions.  To  me  it  had 
to  do  with  rain  and  frost  and  the  tides  and  the 
pulses  of  plants — the  silent  things.  I  did  not 
understand — but  knew  that  children  came  to  those 
who  took  each  other. 

"I  remember  one  supper;  the  countryman  talked 
— talked  of  the  marriage  day — the  breakfast,  the 
ceremony — the  end  and  the  dusk,  and  turned  to 
Lois  with  sleepy  half-folded  eyes.  She  was  smil 
ing  and  flushed — and  I  looked  from  face  to  face 
at  the  table,  at  my  sisters — and  I  rushed  away 
because  I  could  find  nothing  pure.  .  .  .  Some  one 
said  my  mother  never  looked  prettier.  ...  I  re 
member  the  flood  of  honeysuckle  perfume  that 
came  to  me  in  the  torture  of  hatred,  as  I  passed 
through  the  distant  hall.  .  .  .  And  then  later 
from  the  top  of  the  stairs,  Lois  and  my  mother 
were  talking,  and  Lois  said: 

"  'You  know,  Mother,  we  will  not  have  chil 
dren  for  the  first  three  years,  at  least ' ': 

"I  was  somehow  below  by  her  in  the  lower 
hall.  She  seemed  a  rosy  pig  upstanding,  marked 
red  and  flaming.  .  .  .  And  that  night  long  after 
ward,  my  mother  found  me  and  said,  'You  are 
getting  beyond  me,  Olga.'  .  .  .  But  I  could  only 

[224] 


THE      STONE      HOUSE!     I 


think  of  men  and  women  copying  the  squirrels, 
filling  their  bins,  dressing  their  door-yards,  reach 
ing  for  outer  things — and  it  was  back  of  my  very 
being — back  of  the  mother  and  the  patriarch — 
back  of  the  shepherding  and  the  folding — back 
of  me.  I  hated  life  with  destroying  hatred — Lois 
wanting  the  seasons,  but  unwilling  to  bring  forth 
fruit,  accepting  the  countryman's  idea  of  life. 
.  .  .  Can  you  see  that  it  had  the  look  of  death 
to  me?" 

Bellair  could  only  bow  his  head.  To  him  the 
woman  was  revealing  the  grim  days  through  which 
she  had  won  her  poise  and  power.  .  .  .  She  was 
telling  another  incident  with  the  same  inclination 
— for  the  thought  of  being  a  mother  had  been 
the  one  master  of  her  days.  He  seemed  to  see  the 
child,  the  girl,  the  younger  woman  about  her — a 
grey-eyed,  red-lipped  girl,  with  a  waist  that  was 
smaller  and  smaller  as  she  gained  in  inches  from 
fifteen  to  eighteen — madness  for  mothering,  pas 
sionate  in  that,  but  not  passionate  for  sensation — 
her  face  sometimes  so  white,  that  they  would  ask 
her  mother,  "Is  Olga  quite  well  ?"  .  .  .  Yet  teem 
ing  with  that  intensive  health  that  goes  with  small 
bones  and  perfect  assimilation — that  finds  all  to 
sustain  life  in  fruit  and  leaves  .  .  .  books,  light 
sleeping,  impassioned  with  the  lives  of  great 
women  and  the  saints — one  of  those  who  come  to 
the  world  for  devotion  and  austerity  and  instant 
sacrifice;  yet  for  none  of  these  apart;  rather  a 

[225] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 

fruitful  vine,  her  prevailing  and  perennial  pas 
sion  for  motherhood. 

"And  yet  I  almost  ceased  to  breathe,"  she  was 
saying,  "when  I  came  to  understand  man's  part  in 
these  things.  I  felt  myself  differently  after  that 
— even  children — but  from  this  early  crisis  which 
so  many  men  and  women  have  met  with  untellable 
suffering,  emerged  a  calm  that  could  not  have 
come  without  it.  The  travail  brought  me  deep 
into  the  truth.  For  all  great  things  the  price  must 
be  paid — how  wonderfully  we  learned  that  in 
the  open  boat.  There  are  sordid  processes  in  the 
production  of  all  fine  things — even  in  the  bringing 
forth  of  a  Messiah." 

She  paused,  as  if  she  saw  something  enter  the 
eyes  that  had  listened  so  fervently.  Bellair 
cleared  his  voice.  "I  remember  something  he 
said,"  he  told  her.  "That  matter  is  the  slate — 
spirit  the  message  that  is  written.  The  slate  is 
broken,  the  message  erased,  but  eyes  have  seen  it, 
and  the  transaction  is  complete.  For  the  spirit  has 
integrated  itself  in  expression " 

"I  think  he  said  it,  for  you  to  tell  me  now," 
the  Faraway  Woman  whispered. 

"Only  he  could  have  halted  your  story,"  Bel- 
lair  added. 

".  .  .1  told  you  when  my  Guest  came  in  the 
afterglow,  of  the  house  of  our  nearest  but  dis 
tant  neighbour;  now  I  am  telling  you  of  years 
afterward,  when  there  were  many  houses  between 

[226] 


THE     STONE     HOUSE!     I 


on  the  long  road,  and  my  playmate  Paul  had  gone 
away  to  Sidney.  Lois  had  long  been  married.  I 
was  seventeen — and  so  strangely  and  subtly  hun 
gering — for  expression,  for  something  that  I  did 
not  know,  which  meant  reality  to  me,  but  which 
was  foreign  and  of  no  import  to  all  about  me. 
Often  at  evening  I  stared  up  the  long  road.  .  .  . 
I  remember  late  one  night  in  the  nearest  house,  the 
soft  wind  brought  me  the  cry  of  a  child.  It  was 
so  newly  come  and  it  was  not  well.  I  went  to  it 
just  as  I  was,  though  the  people  had  just  moved 
in  and  were  strange  to  us.  It  was  thirst — as  we 
know.  I  went  to  it,  as  we  would  have  gone  to  a 
waterfall.  The  door  of  their  house  was  locked, 
but  I  knocked.  The  father  came  down  at  last. 
The  lower  rooms  were  filled  with  unpacked  boxes. 
I  told  him  why  I  had  come.  He  talked  to  me 
strangely.  He  went  upstairs  and  sent  the  mother 
down  to  me.  It  did  not  seem  as  if  I  could  live 
through  that  night — and  not  have  my  way.  She 
put  her  arms  about  me,  led  me  upstairs  to  a  room 
that  was  not  occupied — save  a  chair  by  the  win 
dow.  I  stood  there  waiting  until  she  returned 
with  the  child.  ...  I  saw  lights  back  in  our 
house  when  they  missed  me — voices,  but  I  could 
not  go.  In  the  early  light  I  heard  the  woman  say 
ing  to  my  mother:  '.  .  .  We  really  needed  her 
so.  Baby  was  restless,  but  he  is  much  better  and 
quiet  with  her.  They  are  very  happy  together. 
.  .  .  Yes,  she  is  safe  and  well.' ' 

[227] 


LOT      &      COMPANY 


The  Faraway  Woman  left  him  now  to  go  to 
the  child. 


Returning,  she  put  the  kettle  on,  and  made  tea 
in  the  earthen  pot.  To  Bellair  her  coming  into 
the  room  again  was  a  replenishment — as  if  she  had 
been  gone  for  hours ;  and  this  started  a  pang  deep 
in  his  heart,  which  presently  suffused  everything 
when  he  realised  that  his  ship  had  come  for  him. 
It  was  past  midnight.  ...  In  reality  it  was  to 
morrow  that  his  ship  would  sail. 

"You  listen  wonderfully,"  she  said. 

"It  seems  all  about  the  little  Gleam,"  he  an 
swered.  "It  makes  everything  significant  about 
the  open  boat.  ...  I  forget  to  swallow " 

They  laughed  together. 

"Do  you  know,  I  can  hardly  realise  when  we 
are  here — that  this  is  New  Zealand?"  she  said 
presently,  "that  only  a  little  way  back  is  the  long 
road  and  the  river  and  the  ravine — the  neighbour's 
house  and  ours  and  the  other  houses  between.  .  .  . 
I  will  tell  you  the  rest  very  quickly — and  oh,  let 
me  tell  you  first,  I  am  not  afraid.  In  spite  of  all 
I  know,  I  am  not " 

She  was  bending  forward  across  the  table. 

"...  I  was  a  woman  when  Paul  came  back 
from  the  distant  city — and  came  first  of  all  to 
me.  He  was  changed — something  excellent  about 
his  face  and  carriage,  and  something  I  did  not 

[228] 


THE      STONE      HOUSE:     I 


understand  at  all,  his  face  deeper  lint  -\  his  voice 
lower,  his  words  ready.  I  did  not  think  about 
him  when  he  was  away.  In  the  first  evenings 
we  passed  together,  I  had  only  an  old-time  laugh 
for  him.  I  kissed  him  with  something  like  affec 
tion.  We  were  permitted  to  be  alone  together, 
and  I  saw  the  old  look  upon  my  father's  face — 
that  I  had  hated  so.  That  look — even  before  the 
playmate  thing  had  departed  from  me.  Then  I 
began  to  see  Paul — something  I  could  not  like 
nor  understand,  a  readiness  of  words,  and  he  was 
not  wise  enough  to  make  them  ring  deeply.  I 
seemed  to  be  studying  in  him  the  novelty  of  a 
man — through  the  eyes  of  a  girl. 

"One  night  we  were  together  in  my  father's 
house.  It  was  our  Spring  and  raining  softly  on 
the  steps.  The  grass  seemed  full  of  odours,  and 
the  vines  trembling  with  life.  He  kissed  me  there. 
It  seemed  that  I  hardly  knew.  I  was  looking  over 
his  shoulder  into  the  dark,  and  I  saw  a  little  white 
face.  It  was  like  a  rain-washed  flower  .  .  .  and 
to  me  it  was  quite  everything. 

".  .  .  Everything  that  I  had  known  and  loved 
— compensation  for  all  that  I  had  missed  and 
hungered  for.  Only  the  little  face — but  I  knew 
the  arms  were  held  out  to  me. 

"Paul  knew  nothing  of  this.     He  was  not  to 

blame.    It  was  not  he,  who  carried  me  away.    He 

was  merely  being  the  man  he  fancied — playing 

the  thing  as  the  world  had  taught  him — showing 

[229] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 

himself  fervent  and  a  man.  I  could  have  laughed 
at  his  kisses.  ...  I  have  nothing  against  him.  It 
was  his  way.  .  .  .  But  once  he  kissed  me — and  it 
came  to  me  that  he  was  the  way — that  he  must 
join  his  call  to  mine.  ...  I  could  do  all  but  that 
— I  need  not  love  him.  Can  you  understand — it 
seemed  as  if  everything  was  done  but  that — that 
the  little  face  had  already  chosen  me.  ...  I  sent 
him  away,  and  I  remember  long  afterward  I  was 
standing  on  the  porch  alone.  It  rained." 

Bellair  realised  now  that  she  was  watching  him 
with  something  like  anguish.  A  different  picture 
of  her  came  to  him  from  that  moment — filed  for 
the  long  days  apart — the  rapt  look  of  her  mouth, 
and  the  pearl  in  her  hair  that  brought  out  the 
lustre  of  whiteness  from  her  skin — full-bosomed, 
but  slender — slender  hands  that  trembled  and 
moved  toward  him  as  she  spoke.  ...  It  was 
something  for  him — as  if  he  had  always  been 
partly  asleep  before — as  if  she  had  brought  some 
final  arousing  component  to  his  being. 

".  .  .  My  mother  did  not  ask  but  once.  When 
I  told  her — the  horror  came  to  me  that  she  would 
die.  I  had  not  thought  of  it  before.  I  had  thought 
that  it  was  mine — had  seen  very  little  of  Paul. 
In  fact,  he  had  come  several  times,  when  I  would 
not  see  him.  .  .  .  She  called  my  father — and  it 
was  all  to  be  enacted  again.  For  a  moment,  I 
thought  he  would  strike  me.  The  most  dreadful 

[230] 


THE     STONE      HOUSE! I 


thing  to  them  all  was  that  I  was  not  ashamed. 
They  felt  that  I  was  unnatural.  .  .  . 

"There  was  one  high  day  in  that  little  upper 
room.  It  was  all  like  a  prayer,  when  they  would 
suffer  me  to  be  alone  and  not  wring  me  with  their 
misery — but  this  one  high  day,  I  must  tell  you.  I 
stood  by  the  window  in  the  watery  light  of  the 
sun  from  the  far  north.  That  moment  the  Strange 
Courage  came.  I  felt  that  I  could  lead  a  nation, 
not  to  war,  but  to  enduring  peace;  as  if  I  had  a 
message  for  all  my  people,  and  a  courage  not  of 
woman's,  to  tell  it,  to  tell  it  a,gain  and  again — 
until  all  the  people  answered.  It  was  then  that 
I  understood  that  a  man's  soul  had  come  to  my 
baby,  and  that  it  was  not  to  be  a  girl,  as  I  had 
sometimes  thought. 

"And  then  the  rest  of  the  waiting — days  of 
misery  that  I  can  hardly  remember  the  changes 
of — yet  something  singing  within  me — I  holding 
it  high  toward  heaven  as  I  could — singing  with 
the  song  within.  After  weeks,  it  suddenly  came 
to  me  what  they  wanted  to  do  to  hide  their  shame 
— to  take  the  little  child  half-finished  from  me — 
to  murder  it — to  hide  their  shame. 

"Then  I  told  them  that  it  had  not  occurred  to 
me  to  marry  Paul — that  I  did  not  love  him — that 
I  had  loved  the  little  child.  I  told  them  that  I 
did  not  believe  in  the  world — that  I  did  not  be 
lieve  I  had  done  wrong — that  I  did  not  believe 
[231] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 


our  old  preacher  who  stayed  so  long  at  the  table 
could  make  me  more  ready  for  the  child.  I  told 
my  father  that  I  did  not  believe  in  marrying  a 
man  and  saying  that  I  would  have  no  children  for 
three  years.  I  told  him  that  I  was  mad  for  the 
child — that  I  was  young  and  strong  and  ready  to 
die  for  it  ...  that  my  baby  wanted  me,  and  no 
other.  I  would  have  gone  away,  but  they  would 
not  let  me  do  that.  They  kept  me  in  an  upper 
room.  Paul  had  gone  away  .  .  .  and  after 
months  my  father  went  to  find  him.  It  was  sad 
to  me — sadness  that  I  cannot  forget  in  that — my 
father  taking  his  cane  and  his  bag  and  setting 
out  to  find  the  father — heart-broken  and  full  of 
the  awfulness  of  being  away  from  his  home.  He 
had  not  been  away  for  years.  .  .  .  And  my 
mother  coming  timidly  to  my  room.  .  .  .  And 
then  I  went  down  like  Pharaoh's  daughter  to  the 
very  edge  of  the  water — for,  for  the  Gleam !" 

Her  eyes  were  shining  and  she  laughed  a  little, 
looking  upward  as  if  she  saw  a  vision  of  it,  and 
had  forgotten  the  room  and  the  listening — her 
eyes  as  close  to  tears  as  laughter. 

".  .  .  And  when  I  came  back — it  was  all  so 
different.  I  could  pity  them — my  heart  break 
ing  for  my  father  and  mother,  who  had  not  the 
wonder,  and  only  the  fears.  They  were  passing 
out — after  doing  their  best  as  they  saw  it,  for 
many,  many  years  together — and  I  had  brought 
them  the  tragedy,  the  crumbling  of  their  house — - 

£232] 


THE      STONE      HOUSE:     I 


a  shame  upon  the  patriarch  of  the  long  road,  a 
blackness  upon  her  maternities.  ...  It  was  my 
father's  thought  to  bring  Paul  to  me.  As  if  I 
would  have  taken  him,  but  he  came — my  father 
having  given  him  much  money.  .  .  .  Oh,  do  not 
be  hard  upon  him.  There  is  wildness  in  him  and 
looseness,  but  the  world  had  showed  him  the  way 
and  he  was  young.  I  said  to  him  (it  was  within 
ten  days  after  the  coming  and  my  father  and 
mother  were  gone  from  the  room),  'I  would  not 
think  of  marrying  you,  Paul,  but  do  not  tell  them. 
As  soon  as  I  am  ready,  I  shall  go  away  with  you, 
and  they  will  not  be  so  unhappy — and  as  soon  as 
we  are  well  away,  you  shall  be  free.  And  you 
may  keep  the  money,  Paul.' 

".  ,  .  And  now  it  is  like  bringing  you  a  reward 
for  listening  so  well.  I  tell  you  now  of  a  moment 
of  beauty  and  wonder — such  as  I  had  known  but 
once  before,  and  was  more  real  to  me  than  all 
the  rest.  It  made  that  which  was  sorrowful  and 
sordid  of  the  rest  seem  of  little  account.  ...  It 
was  early  evening  in  the  upper  room  and  still 
light.  An  old  servant  who  loved  me  was  in  the 
room,  and  the  Gleam  was  sleeping — the  four 
teenth  day  after  his  coming.  The  woman  helped 
me  to  a  chair  and  drew  it  to  the  window,  and 
all  was  hushed.  Even  before  I  looked  out,  an 
unspeakable  happiness  began  to  gush  into  my 
heart. 

"The  ravine  was  crowding  with  darkness,  but 
1233] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 

the  long  road  was  full  of  light.  The  houses  be 
tween  seemed  to  dwindle  but  the  distance  was 
full  of  radiance — that  perfect  afterglow  again. 
Not  for  twenty  years  had  there  been  such  a  sun 
set,  and  now  the  sky  was  massed  with  gold  of  the 
purple  martin's  breast,  and  the  roof  of  Paul's 
house  was  like  two  open  leaves  of  beaten  gold — 
everywhere  the  air  filled  with  strange  brighten- 
ings.  The  fragrance  from  the  fields  arose  to  meet 
the  heaven  falling  from  the  sky. 

"I  tried  to  make  believe,  but  the  road  was 
empty.  The  Guest  would  never  come  again,  and 
yet  on  such  a  night  as  this,  he  had  come  to  me — 
like  a  saint  that  has  finished  his  work,  like  a 
Master  coming  down  a  last  time.  All  the  room 
and  the  house  was  hushed  behind  me.  .  .  .  But 
the  long  road  was  empty. 

"The  old  servant  at  last  could  bear  it  no  longer. 
Perhaps  she  thought  I  did  not  breathe.  Softly 
she  crossed  the  room  to  the  cradle,  lifted  the 
Gleam  and  placed  him  in  my  lap — as  if  to  call 
me  back.  Breath  came  quickly  at  the  touch  of 
him,  and  she  must  have  heard  a  low,  joyous  sound 
as  I  felt  the  child.  With  one  hand  I  held  him, 
patting  his  shoulder  softly,  slowly,  with  the  other, 
until  the  ecstasy  of  long  ago  flowed  into  my  being. 

"There  was  a  moment  that  I  should  have  asked 
her  to  take  the  Gleam  from  me — had  I  been  able 
to  speak.  It  was  such  a  moment  that  I  had  run 
out  under  the  stars.  But  as  I  patted  the  tiny 

[234] 


THE     STONE     HOUSE!     I 


shoulder,  the  burden  of  the  ecstasy  passed,  and 
a  durable  blessedness  came — the  calm  of  great 
understanding. 

"The  road — of  course  it  was  empty — for  he 
had  come.  ...  I  thought  I  had  told  the  old 
servant,  but  a  second  time  I  seemed  to  see  her 
anxious  face  bending  so  near  in  the  dusk. 

"  'Why,  don't  you  see*?'  I  whispered.  'He  was 
looking  for  his  mother  when  I  found  him.'  " 

That  was  the  end  of  the  story — the  rest  just 
details  that  an  outsider  might  ask :  How  she  went 
away  with  Paul  for  the  sake  of  her  father;  how 
he  remained  with  her  during  the  long  voyage  to 
America,  but  as  nothing  to  her,  more  and  more 
a  stranger  of  different  ways  from  hers — how  he 
gave  her  but  a  little  of  the  money  her  father  had 
put  in  trust  for  her  keeping — and  rushed  away  to 
dig  his  grave  in  the  city.  .  .  .  Then  just  a 
glimpse  of  her  need  and  her  labour  and  longing 
for  the  Island  life — a  dream,  the  Jade.  .  .  . 

5 

The  final  morning,  Bellair  took  the  babe  in  his 
arms  and  let  himself  down  the  rocky  way  to  the 
shore.  The  trail  was  empty  behind  him,  and 
the  cottage  shut  off  by  the  group  of  little 
pines,  pure  to  pass  through  as  the  room  of  a  child. 
And  here  were  rain-washed  boulders  warming  in 
the  morning  sun,  and  before  his  eyes  the  blue 

[235] 


LOT     &      COMPANY 


and  deep-eyed  sea.  It  rolled  up  to  his  feet,  for 
ever  changing  with  its  stories  and  its  secrets,  very 
cool  about  them  all  to-day,  full  of  mastery  and 
leisure. 

Bellair  sat  upon  a  stone  and  looked  at  the  child : 
"I  wish  you  could  tell  me,  little  man  .  .  .  but 
you  are  not  telling.  You  know  it  all,  like  the 
sea — but  you  do  not  tell.  .  .  .  And  I'll  see  you 
so  many  times,  when  I'm  away, — see  you  like  this 
and  wish  many  times  I  could  Hold  you.  For  we 
were  always  friends,  good  friends.  You  didn't 
ask  much.  .  .  .  And  you  were  fine  in  the  pinch, 
my  son.  .  .  .  That  little  cry  I  heard,  that  little 
cry.  .  .  .  He  loved  you,  and  promised  great 
things  for  you.  I've  come  to  believe  it,  little  man, 
for  I  know  your  mother.  That's  good  gambling, 
from  where  I  stand.  .  .  .  He  knew  it  first.  He 
knew  it  all  first.  And  you  didn't  tell  him.  .  .  . 
Oh,  be  all  to  her,  little  Gleam — be  all  to  her,  and 
tell  her  I  love  her — when  she  looks  away  to  the 
sea.  Tell  her,  I'll  be  coming,  perhaps.  ...  I 
didn't  know  I'd  ever  be  called  to  kiss  a  little  boy 
— but  it's  all  the  same  to  you  .  .  .  and  take  care 
of  her  for  me.'* 

They  were  standing  together  a  last  time  before 
his  journey.  The  carriage  had  been  waiting  many 
minutes.  The  child  was  propped  upon  the  lawn, 
and  Elsie  was  picking  her  steps  and  shaking  her 
paws  that  met  the  dew  under  the  grass.  His  eye 
was  held  over  her  shoulder  to  the  weathered  door 
1236] 


THE     STONE     HOUSE:     I 


of  the  stone  cottage.  It  was  ajar  and  coppery 
brown,  like  the  walls  above  the  young  vines.  And 
over  her  other  shoulder,  too,  was  the  brilliant 
etheric  divide  of  the  sea.  He  had  to  go  back  and 
stand  a  moment  in  the  large  room.  The  wind  and 
the  light  came  in;  the  vine  tendrils  came  trailing 
in.  He  saw  her  books,  her  pictures,  her  chair, 
her  door.  .  .  . 

He  stood  beside  her  again,  and  tried  to  tell  her 
how  moving  these  weeks  had  been. 

"Yes,  we  have  seen  both  sides,  and  this  was 
the  perfect  side.  We  saw  the  other,  well " 

"And  you  are  not  caught  in  either — that's  what 
thrills  me  most,"  said  he.  "I  am  always  caught 
— in  hunger  and  thirst  and  fear  and  pain — in 
beauty  and  possessions.  But  you  have  stood  the 
same  through  it  all — ready  to  come  or  go,  ready 
for  sun  or  storm " 

"After  years  of  changes  and  uncertainty,  one 
comes  to  rely  only  upon  the  true  things." 

"I  shall  want  to  come  back — before  the  first 
turn  of  the  road,"  he  said.  "I  think  I  am  hungry 
for  the  little  house  now " 

She  put  her  arms  about  him.  His  heart  was 
torn,  but  there  was  something  immortal  in  the 
moment. 

"This  shall  always  be  your  home,"  she  said. 

"You  may  come  back  to-night — to-morrow — in 

twenty  years — this  is  your  house.    I  shall  be  here. 

I  shall  teach  him  to  know  and  welcome  you.  .  .  . 

[237] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 


We  are  different.  We  are  not  strangers.  We 
have  gone  down  into  the  deep  ways  together.  We 
shall  always  know  each  other,  as  no  one  else  can, 
or  as  we  can  know  no  others.  So  we  must  be 
much  to  each  other — and  this  is  our  home.  You 
will  never  forget.  .  .  .  Oh,  yes,  you  must  come 
back — just  as  you  must  go  away " 

Sentence  by  sentence,  softly,  easily  spoken;  not 
with  a  great  beauty  of  saying,  but  with  a  bestowal 
of  the  heart  that  compelled  his  finest  receptivity. 
And  she  had  held  him  as  a  mother  might,  or  as 
a  sister,  or  as  a  woman  who  loved  him.  There 
was  something  in  her  tenure,  of  all  the  loves  of 
earth.  He  looked  deeply  into  her  eyes,  but  hers 
was  the  love  that  did  not  betray  itself  then  in 
the  senses.  He  could  not  know,  for  he  would  not 
trust  his  own  heart.  .  .  .  But  this  he  knew,  and 
was  much  to  ponder  afterward:  This  which  she 
gave,  could  not  have  been  given,  nor  have  been 
received,  before  the  days  of  the  open  boat.  So 
strange  was  the  ministry  of  that  fasting. 

They  kissed,  and  hers  so  gladly  given,  failed 
of  the  secret;  yet  revealed  to  him  a  love  that  sus 
tained,  and  sent  him  forth  a  man — such  as  Bellair 
had  not  been. 


[238] 


PART  SIX:  LOT  &  COMPANY:  II 


[239] 


PART   SIX 
LOT   &   COMPANY:    II 


BELLAIR  reached  New  York  on  a  mid- 
May  morning  from  the  west,  and 
walked  up  Seventh  avenue  to  his  old 
room.  It  was  a  time  of  day  that  he 
had  seldom  known  the  street  and  step.  There 
was  a  different  expression  of  daylight  upon  them. 
Of  course,  he  had  met  these  matters  on  many  Sun 
days,  but  Sunday  light  and  atmosphere  was  in 
variably  different  to  his  eyes — something  foreign 
and  false  about  it.  He  saw  the  old  hall-mark, 
however,  in  the  vestibule — the  partial  sweeping. 
...  It  had  always  been  her  way;  all  things  a 
form.  The  vestibule  and  stone  steps  had  to  be 
swept — that  was  the  law;  to  be  swept  with 
strength  and  thoroughness  was  secondary.  He 
rang,  and  asked  the  servant  for  the  woman  of 
the  house. 

Waiting,  he  found  himself  in  a  singular  depres- 

[24-1] 


LOT     &      COMPANY 


sion  of  mind.  The  City  had  cramped  and  be 
wildered  him.  A  small  oval  of  grey-white  cloud 
appeared  in  the  dark  hall.  It  came  nearer,  and 
Bellair  saw  the  face  of  dusty  wax — smaller,  a 
little  lower  from  his  eyes.  It  came  very  near, 
and  was  upturned.  The  vision  was  dim,  and  the 
memory;  all  the  passages  slow  and  cluttered. 

"It  is  Mr.  Bellair,"  she  said,  without  offering 
her  hand. 

"Yes.    I've  come  back." 

"I  haven't  a  room — for  you." 

"Oh,  I'm  sorry." 

"And  about  your  things  in  storage — I  would  be 
glad  for  the  space  now.  Could  you  take  care  of 
this  to-day?' 

"Yes,"  he  answered. 

"I  have  the  bill  ready."  .  .  .  She  called  the 
servant  who  came  with  the  broom.  "On  my  table 
among  the  papers  you  will  find  Mr.  Bellair's  bill 
for  storage.  Please  get  it." 

Bellair  heard  the  servant  on  the  stairs,  one,  two, 
three  flights;  then  a  long  silence.  He  had  never 
been  quite  sure  where  the  landlady  slept,  believing 
that  she  hovered  from  basement  to  sky-light  ac 
cording  to  the  ebb  and  flow  of  the  tenant  tides. 
The  double-doors  from  the  hall  to  the  lower  front 
room  were  slightly  ajar.  This,  the  most  expensive 
in  the  house,  appeared  to  be  vacant.  The  servant 
was  gone  a  long  time.  The  landlady  did  not  leave 
him  alone  in  the  hall.  They  did  not  speak.  The 

[242] 


LOT    &    COMPANY:    n 

darkness  crept  upon  Bellair  as  if  he  were  in  a 
tank  that  was  slowly  but  surely  being  filled,  and 
presently  would  cover  him.  The  paper  was 
brought,  the  charge  for  six  months'  storage, 
meagre.  Bellair  paid  it,  and  offered  more.  He 
thought  of  her  hard  life,  but  the  extra  money  was 
passed  back  to  him. 

"I  have  that  present  in  keeping,"  she  said. 

"What  present?' 

"That  you  gave  me  the  night  you  went 
away " 

"But  I  gave  it  to  you.  Would  you  not  take 
a  little  gift  from  one  who  had  been  in  your  house 
five  years'?" 

"Money  easily  got,  goes  the  same,"  she  an 
swered. 

Then  Bellair  realised  how  stupid  he  had  been. 
She  had  seen  the  newspapers.  She  had  been 
afraid  to  trust  him  alone  in  that  bare  hall.  The 
smell  of  carpets  stifled  him. 

"I'm  sorry  you  feel  that  way,"  he  said.  "But 
hold  the  present  a  little  longer.  Perhaps  you  will 
not  always  feel  that  it  came  so  easily.  I'll  send 
for  my  goods  at  once.  .  .  .  Good-bye." 

"Good-bye,  Mr.  Bellair." 

He  was  ill.  The  side-door  of  a  famous  hotel 
yawned  to  him  directly  across  the  street  from  his 
step.  He  was  not  sure  they  would  take  him. 
Registering,  he  stopped  to  think  where  he  was 
from,  adding  Auckland,  N.  Z.  .  .  .  Yes,  his  bags 

[243] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 

would  be  brought  from  the  station.  They 
gave  him  a  room,  and  Bellair  stood  in  the  centre 
of  it. 

For  a  few  moments  he  actually  weakened — 
limbs  and  mind.  It  wasn't  New  York  alone,  nor 
the  sordid  incident  across  the  street,  reminding 
him  so  ruthlessly  of  Lot  &  Company  and  all  that 
had  been  and  was  still  to  do;  rather  it  was  a  giv 
ing  way  to  a  loneliness  that  had  been  rising  for 
almost  a  month,  wearing  him  to  a  shadow  of  him 
self,  and  giving  him  battle  night  and  morning. 
Like  many  another  solitary  young  man,  he  had 
brooded  much  upon  what  a  certain  woman  might 
be.  He  had  found  that  in  those  women  he  met, 
certain  spaces  must  be  filled  in  by  his  own  com 
passion — and  these  spaces  did  not  endure.  Al 
ways  in  a  test  they  separated  from  the  reality. 
But  the  Faraway  Woman  day  by  day  had  ful 
filled;  even  where  his  idealism  failed,  she  com 
pleted  the  picture  of  the  woman  above  him  and 
of  irresistible  attraction. 

She  had  come  nearer  and  nearer.  She  was 
magic  in  this  way.  He  had  regarded  her  at  first 
distantly  and  askance  at  the  rail  of  the  Jade.  A 
gasp  now  came  from  him.  That  was  so  impossible 
and  long  ago.  .  .  .  She  had  not  called  him  any 
more  than  a  peasant  woman.  And  yet  one  after 
another  her  rarities  had  unfolded;  it  would  always 
be  so.  She  was  the  very  fountain  of  romance  to 
him;  the  essence  of  whose  attraction  is  variableness 

[244] 


LOT    &    COMPANY:    n 

of  days.  Of  all  the  days  together,  there  had  been 
no  two  alike — no  two  hours  alike.  He  had 
watched  her  face  under  the  light — never  twice  the 
same.  The  child,  the  maiden,  the  mother,  the 
love- woman,  the  saint — lips  passional,  devotional 
.  .  .  then  those  wonder-moments  when  the  old 
tragedies  came  back  to  her  eyes. 

They  .stirred  him  as  if  he  had  known  her  long 
ago;  and  yet  nothing  of  this  had  come  to  him  at 
first.  How  crude  and  coarse  he  had  been  not  to 
see.  Lot  &  Company  and  New  York  had  cov 
ered  her  from  his  eyes.  He  had  to  fast  and  pray 
and  concentrate  upon  her  being,  as  a  devotee  upon 
the  ball  of  crystal  to  begin  upon  her  mysteries. 
Every  man  has  his  Lot  &  Company,  his  New  York 
— the  forces  that  bind  him  to  the  world.  A  man 
bound  to  the  world  can  see  but  the  body  of  a  thing 
— the  paint  of  a  picture,  just  the  outline  and  pig 
ment  of  a  picture  or  a  bit  of  nature — just  the  body 
of  a  woman. 

Something  came  to  him  that  instant — of  the 
perfect  law  of  all  things.  Those  caught  in  the 
body  of  events  see  but  that,  hear  but  that,  antici 
pate  but  that — the  very  secret  of  all  the  misery 
and  shortsightedness  in  the  world.  A  man  must 
rise,  lift  the  centre  of  consciousness  above  the  body 
of  things,  even  to  see  physical  matters  in  their  true 
relation.  It  was  all  so  thrillingly  true  to  him  in 
this  glimpse — that  a  man  can  never  see  properly 
the  sequence  of  his  actions  unless  he  can  rise  above 

[245] 


LOT      &      COMPANY 


them — that  those  in  the  ruck  never  know  what 
they  are  about.  .  .  . 

He  tried  to  remember  her  face,  as  he  stood  in 
the  hotel  room.  Failing,  his  mind  returned  to 
their  days  together.  He  was  apart  now  and  could 
view  them,  one  by  one,  in  their  wonder  and  beauty. 
He  was  torn  with  them.  At  different  times  on 
the  long  voyage  he  had  dwelt  separately  upon  the 
episodes.  Some  had  worn  him  to  exhaustion. 
People  on  the  ship  had  believed  him  a  man  with 
a  great  grief.  At  first,  he  looked  about  from  face 
to  face  searching  for  some  one  whom  he  might 
tell,  but  there  was  no  reception  for  his  story.  He 
had  to  stop  and  think  that  he  was  different  and 
apart.  .  .  .  She  had  always  been  apart. 

He  had  carried  it  alone,  moving  hushed  and 
alone  with  his  story;  lying  open-eyed  in  his  berth 
through  the  hours  of  night,  and  often  through  the 
afternoons,  an  open  book  face  downward  upon  his 
chest,  his  pipe  cold  .  .  .  living  again  the  different 
moments  in  the  rooms  of  the  stone  cottage,  in  the 
garden,  on  the  shore;  their  journeys  together,  their 
breakfasts  and  luncheons  and  evenings  together. 

The  boy  was  gone  from  him,  from  face  and 
body.  He  did  not  know  what  had  come  instead, 
but  he  knew  that  he  carried  a  creative  image  in  his 
heart ;  something  of  the  fragrance  of  her  lingering 
about  him.  It  had  come  to  him  at  night  alone 
on  deck — the  sweetness  of  her — on  the  wind.  All 
that  he  wanted,  all  that  he  dreamed  best  of  life 

[246] 


LOT    &    COMPANY:    n 

and  labour  and  love  .  .  .  and  yet  after  all,  what 
had  he  to  do  with  her  in  relation  to  these  intimate 
things'?  Friend,  companion,  confidante — she  was 

everything  that  a  woman  could  be,  except 

Had  not  the  substance  of  that  kind  of  giving  died 
for  her  in  the  passing  of  the  preacher4?  .  .  . 
Something  of  her  story  frightened  him.  She  had 
learned  the  ultimate  realness  of  loving.  The  man 
who  entered  her  heart  now  would  have  to  come 
with  an  immortal  seal  upon  him.  There  was  but 
one  who  could  take  up  the  fatherhood  of  the 
Gleam.  .  .  .  Bellair  did  not  feel  the  man;  did 
not  know  what  she  had  given  him;  did  not  know 
what  had  come  to  him — to  his  face  and  carriage 
and  voice.  He  had  not  yet  lifted  himself  above 
so  that  he  could  see.  Those  whom  he  met,  how 
ever,  were  struck  with  a  different  Bellair,  and 
those  who  could  not  understand  thought  him 
touched  a  little  queerly — as  a  man  after  sunstroke 
or  any  great  light. 

...  It  was  now  noon.  He  thought  of  his  old 
friend,  Broadwell,  of  the  advertising-desk  at  Lot 
&  Company's.  Perhaps  Broadwell  would  dine 
with  him.  He  called.  The  voice  came  back  to 
him.  .  .  .  Yes,  he  would  come  at  once.  Bellair 
asked  him  to  the  hotel.  In  the  interval  he  called 
the  Trust  company  in  whose  keeping  the  thousand 
dollar  surety  had  been,  inquiring  if  Lot  &  Com 
pany  had  collected  the  amount.  The  answer  was 
returned  presently  to  the  effect  that  Lot  &  Com- 

[247] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 

pany  had  presented  his  release  and  collected  the 
amount   with   interest   four   days   after  his  de 
parture. 

Bel  lair  hearkened  to  a  faint  singing  somewhere 
within  and  found  it  had  to  do  with  Bessie.  He 
called  Brandt's  and  ascertained  that  the  same 
quartette  was  to  sing  there  at  nine  in  the  evening. 
This  was  also  one  of  the  things  he  had  come  to 
do. 

Broadwell  was  a  trifle  late,  but  all  urbanity. 
There  was  something  of  the  salesman's  manner 
and  enunciation  about  him.  Bellair  fell  away 
after  the  greeting,  caught  in  a  sort  of  mental 
flurry  in  which  the  picture  of  another  luncheon 
engagement  recurred  to  his  mind — the  day  he 
had  passed  the  desk  and  cage  of  Mr.  Sproxley 
with  the  stranger  named  Filbrick,  and  his  own 
telling  of  the  cashier's  passionate  honour.  .  .  . 
When  he  came  back  to  see  clearly  the  face  of 
Broadwell,  he  found  that  he  personally  was  being 
scrutinised  with  odd  intensity.  Could  it  be  that 
Broadwell  had  something  more  than  a  personal 
friendly  interest*?  His  questions  did  not  seem 
adroit,  and  yet  he  wanted  to  know  so  much — of 
the  ship,  of  Auckland,  but  especially  of  this  long 
drive  back  to  New  York. 

"Are  you  stopping  here1?"  he  asked. 

"Yes.  My  old  room  was  just  opposite,  but  I 
was  told  that  the  house  was  full." 

"So  you  came  here4?" 

[248] 


LOT    &    COMPANY:    n 


"Yes." 

"And  are  you  going  to  stay  in  New  York?" 

"I  don't  know,  Ben.  There  are  a  few  things 
to  see  to." 

"Are  you  looking  for  a  job*?" 

"Well,  no.    Not  exactly,  at  least." 

Try  as  he  might,  Bellair  could  not  feel  free,  as 
of  old  time.  He  felt  the  other  wanted  something, 
and  this  checked  his  every  offering.  He  knew 
that  Broad  well,  at  least  six  months  before,  could 
not  have  believed  ill  of  Lot  &  Company,  and 
there  was  no  apparent  change.  The  disclosure 
of  the  press  must  have  righted  itself  in  the  office 
so  far  as  he,  Bellair,  was  concerned ;  surely  Broad- 
well  did  not  share  the  dread  of  him  the  landlady 
had  shown;  and  yet,  it  was  hard  to  broach  these 
things.  The  advertising-man  apparently  had  no 
intention  of  doing  so. 

"We've  all  missed  you  on  the  lower  floor,"  he 
said. 

"Are  there  any  changes?" 

"Very  few." 

"Who  took  my  place?" 

"Man  from  outside.  Mr.  Rawter  brought  in 
the  man — middle-aged.  Mr.  Sproxley  knew  him, 
too." 

"Poor  devil,"  said  Bellair,  but  not  audibly. 
They  had  not  dared  to  open  the  ledger  revela 
tions  to  any  one  in  the  office,  but  had  found  a 
man  outside  who  was  doubtless  familiar  with 
[249] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 

such  books,  doubtless  one  who  had  been  deformed 
in  the  long,  slow  twistings  of  trade.  Perhaps  this 
one  had  children.  Children  were  good  for  Lot 
&  Company's  most  trusted  servants.  It  was  well 
to  have  a  number  of  children,  like  Mr.  Sproxley 
— for  their  wants  are  many,  and  a  man's  soul  can 
not  breathe  in  the  midst  of  many  wants  and  small 
salary. 

"Are  you  coming  over  to  the  office1?" 
"Yes,  I  find  I  have  to.  Some  folks  are  taking 
the  end  Lot  and  Company  gave  the  newspapers 
about  my  leaving.  They  were  very  much  in  a 
hurry  about  giving  out  that  newspaper  story — 
with  the  money  in  the  vaults." 

Broad  well  regarded  him  seriously.  "I  suppose 
they  took  the  point  of  view  that  there  could  be 
but  one  motive  for  your  leaving,  without  giving 

notice.     Most  firms  would " 

"I  wonder  if  most  firms  would*?"  Bellair  asked. 
"Men  have  lapses  other  than  falling  into  thievery. 
At  least  a  firm  should  look  up  the  facts  in  the  case 
first.  It's  a  rather  serious  thing  to  charge  a  man 
with  departure  with  funds.  For  instance,  the 
public  will  glance  through  the  details  of  such  a 
charge,  and  miss  entirely  a  denial  afterward.  Are 
you  under  bond1?" 

"No,  I  don't  handle  company  funds " 

"Suppose  you  were — and  one  night  you  came  to 
the  end  of  your  rope — found  you  couldn't  go 
back — found  it  was  a  life  or  death  matter  of  your 

[250] 


LOT    &    COMPANY:    n 

soul,  whether  you  went  back  or  not.  Still  you 
had  some  salary  coming  and  say  a  thousand  dol 
lars'  surety.  You  took  this  amount  exactly — 
salary  and  bond  and  interest  to  the  dollar,  and 
left  a  note  saying  so,  in  place  of  the  amount ;  also 
a  note  releasing  to  your  firm  the  amount  of  the 
bond  and  interest,  and  stating  clearly  the  item  of 
salary — I  say,  would  you  expect  to  find  yourself 
charged  with  embezzlement  in  next  day's 
paper*?" 

Broadwell's  shoulders  straightened. 

"Not  in  next  day's  paper,"  he  said,  with  a 
smile. 

Bellair  did  not  miss  the  cut  of  this. 

"You  think  that  my  case  was  not  like  that 
exactly1?"  he  asked. 

"I  can't  see  why  a  firm  would  give  such  a  story 
to  the  press — unless  they  uncovered  a  loss," 
Broadwell  said  slowly. 

"Lot  &  Company  couldn't  have  uncovered  a 
loss  without  looking  in  the  very  place  where  my 
note  was,  which  proved  there  was  no  loss.  Lot 
&  Company  couldn't  have  collected  my  bond 
without  proceedings — unless  they  found  my  re 
lease  of  it.  And  the  bond  was  collected." 

"Then  I  can't  see  any  reason  for  incriminating 
• — any  one,"  said  Broadwell. 

"Well,  there  was  a  reason — though  the  facts 
of  my  case  are  exactly  as  stated.  Lot  &  Com 
pany  had  a  reason.  I  haven't  decided  whether  it 

[251] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 

will  be  necessary  to  make  that  known.  .  .  .  But 
I  didn't  bring  you  here  to  discuss  this  affair.  I 
wanted  to  see  you " 

Just  then  Mr.  Broadwell  was  paged.  A  mes 
senger  was  said  to  be  waiting  for  him  in  the 
lobby. 

"Send  him  in,"  Broadwell  said  thoughtlessly. 

Davy  Acton  came,  and  Broadwell  saw  his  error. 
Bellair  perceived  that  his  luncheon-companion  had 
made  known  his  engagement  at  the  office  before 
leaving.  .  .  . 

"Sit  down,  Davy.    I'm  glad  to  see  you " 

The  boy  had  grown.  Bellair  noted  that  simple 
thing,  as  he  noted  the  fact  also  that  Davy  was 
tortured  with  embarrassment,  and  had  not  meant 
to  come  in.  He  wriggled  his  hand  forward  to 
take  Bellair's,  which  was  held  toward  his,  and 
then  looked  down  shamefacedly,  as  if  lie  had  been 
charged  with  theft.  Bellair  knew  well  that  the 
boy's  trouble  was  how  to  meet  him — formerly  a 
friend,  but  now  an  outcast  from  the  firm.  A  kind 
of  darkness  stole  over  him.  He  saw  now  that 
Broadwell  believed  him  a  thief,  even  as  the  land 
lady  had  believed;  but  in  the  case  of  neither  of 
these  did  the  dread  finality  come  to  him,  as  from 
the  face  of  this  stricken  boy. 

This  was  the  thought  that  shot  through  Bel- 
lair's  mind,  "No  one  liked  Davy  so  well  as  I 
did;  no  one  tried  to  help  him  as  I  did;  and  now 
he  thinks  my  liking  and  my  helping,  a  part  of 

[252] 


LOT    &    COMPANY:    n 

the    looseness   of  character   which   made    me    a 
thief." 

The  thought  was  strange,  yet  natural,  too.  It 
came  into  the  darkness  which  had  covered  the 
abode  of  Bellair's  consciousness. 

"A  bit  of  copy — that  I  missed  getting  off," 
Broadwell  was  saying.  "I  was  excited  when  you 
called.  .  .  .  All  right,  Davy.  I've  told  'em 
where  to  find  it  on  the  back  of  the  note.  .  .  .  And 
now  Bellair — you  were  saying " 


Bellair  watched  for  the  turn  on  the  part  of  Broad- 
well  that  would  reveal  the  character  of  his  mes 
sage,  for  he  did  not  believe  the  matter  of  the  copy 
for  the  printer.  The  chill  was  thick  between 
them,  yet  Bellair  managed  to  say : 

"I'm  not  here  for  reprisal  or  trouble-making. 
It's  rather  a  novelty  to  be  innocent,  yet  charged 
with  a  thing;  certainly  one  sees  a  look  from  the 
world  that  could  come  no  other  way.  I  want  to 
see  you  again — soon.  I've  got  a  story  to  tell  you. 
It  was  a  big  thing  to  me.  We  used  to  have  things 
in  common.  I'd  like  to  tell  you  the  story  and  see 
how  it  strikes  you " 

"Good.     I'm  to  spare " 

"Suppose  you  come  here  to  lunch  to-mor 
row " 

"No,  you  come  with  me." 

[253] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 


"I'd  prefer  it  the  other  way,"  Bellair  declared. 
"It's  my  story  you  are  to  listen  to." 

As  they  parted,  there  was  just  a  trace  of  the 
old  Broadwell,  that  left  Bellair  with  a  feeling 
of  kindness. 

"I'm  interested  to  hear  that  story,"  the  adver 
tising-man  said.  "It  did  something  to  you  appar 
ently.  Pulled  you  down  a  lot — but  that's  not 
all.  I  can't  make  it  out  exactly — but  you've  got 
something,  Bellair." 

That  was  a  long  afternoon.  .  .  .  He  had  been 
gone  less  than  six  months;  and  yet  was  as  much 
a  stranger,  as  a  young  man  coming  in  from  the 
West  for  the  first  time.  The  hours  dragged.  The 
City  did  not  awe  him,  but  so  much  of  it  struck  him 
in  places  tender.  He  could  give  and  give;  there 
seemed  no  other  way,  no  other  thing  to  do.  He 
sat  on  a  bench  in  Union  Square,  and  talked  with 
an  old  man  who  needed  money  so  badly  that  Bel 
lair  reflected  for  some  time  the  best  way  to  bestow 
it  without  shock.  The  old  fellow  looked  so  near 
gone,  that  one  feared  his  heart  would  break  under 
any  undue  pressure  of  excitement. 

Bellair  concluded  he  had  better  buy  a  stimulant 
first  of  all,  so  he  led  the  way  across  the  Square  to 
Kiltie's.  They  lined  up  against  the  bar,  and 
warmed  themselves,  the  idea  in  Bellair's  mind 
being  to  give  something  beside  money.  Now  the 
old  man  (not  in  the  least  understanding  more 
than  it  was  the  whim  of  the  stranger  to  do  some- 

[254] 


LOT    &    COMPANY:    u 

thing  for  him),  was  so  intent  on  what  was  to  be 
done  that  he  could  not  listen.  Bellair  had  to  come 
to  the  point.  They  went  to  a  table  for  a  bite  of 
lunch,  and  the  spectacle  of  a  beggar's  mind  opened 
— a  story  lacking  imagination  and  told  with  the 
pitiful  endeavour  to  fit  into  what  was  imagined  to 
be  the  particular  weakness  of  this  listener. 

For  months,  Bellair  had  not  touched  the  little 
orbit  of  the  trodden  lives.  The  story  was  not 
true,  for  no  single  group  of  ten  words  hinged  upon 
what  had  been  said,  or  folded  into  the  next  state 
ment.  The  old  man  was  not  simple,  but  his  guile 
was  simple,  and  the  simplicity  of  that  was  obscene. 
Begging  might  be  a  fine  art,  but  men  chose  or 
fell  into  their  work  without  thought  of  making 
an  art  of  it.  The  old  man  did  not  know  his  own 
tremendous  drama.  Had  he  dared  plainly  to  be 
true,  he  would  have  captivated  the  world  with  his 
own  poor  faculties.  Behind  the  affectations  were 
glimpses  of  great  realities — if  only  the  fallen 
mind  could  accept  his  days  and  tell  them  as  they 
came — just  the  imperishable  fruits  of  his  days. 
As  it  was,  the  whiskey  swept  them  farther  away, 
and  the  creature  attempted  to  act;  his  pitiful  con 
ception  of  effects  were  called  into  being.  The 
throb  of  it  all  was  the  way  the  world  was  brought 
back  to  Bellair.  His  whole  past  city  life  thronged 
into  mind.  This  was  but  a  shocking  example  of 
myriads  of  lives — trying  to  be  what  their  unde 
veloped  senses  prompted  for  the  moment,  rather 

[255] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 


than  to  be  themselves.  This  was  the  salesman's 
voice  and  manner,  he  had  seen  in  Broadwell.  .  .  . 
He  stopped  his  revery  by  handing  over  the 
present. 

The  old  man's  eyes  were  wild  now  with  hope 
and  anguish  to  get  away ;  a  mingling  of  fear,  too, 
lest  the  great  sum  of  money  in  one  piece  be  coun 
terfeit;  lest  the  stranger  ask  it  back,  or  some  one 
knock  him  down  and  take  it  away. 

"I  sat  in  a  small  boat,"  Bellair  was  saying,  "for 
ten  days,  with  very  little  food  and  water.  I  saw 
one  man  die  like  a  beast  of  thirst — or  fear  of 
thirst;  and  I  saw  another  man  master  it — so  that 
he  died  smiling — as  only  a  man  can  die " 

Bellair  did  not  finish.  He  had  tried  to  catch 
the  old  man's  attention  with  this — to  hold  it  an 
instant,  thinking  that  some  word  would  get  home, 
something  of  the  immortal  facts  in  his  heart, 
something  greater  than  cash  .  .  .  but  the  old 
man  believed  him  insane,  a  liar,  a  fool  or  all 
three. 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  said,  looking  to  the  side,  and 
to  the  door. 

So  he  could  listen,  neither  before  nor  afterward. 
Bellair  eased  his  agony  by  letting  him  go — the 
money  gripped  in  his  hands,  his  limbs  hastening, 
eyes  darting  to  the  right  and  left,  as  he  sped 
through  the  swinging  door.  .  .  .  For  several 
moments,  Bellair  sat  in  the  sorrow  of  it — lost  in 
the  grimmest  of  all  tragedies — that  here  we  are,  a 

[256] 


LOT    &    COMPANY:    n 


human  family,  all  designed  for  lofty  and  majestic 
ends,  yet  having  lost  the  power  to  articulate  to 
each  other.  Suddenly  Bellair  remembered  that 
the  old  face  had  looked  into  his  for  a  swift  second, 
when  he  was  released — shaken,  ashen,  a  murmur 
of  something  like  "God  thank  you,"  on  the  trem 
bling  lips.  There  was  a  bit  of  a  ray  in  that.  .  .  . 
Then  he  settled  back  into  the  tragedy  again.  It 
was  this — that  the  old  man  had  thought  him  in 
sane  for  trying  to  help  him;  that  he  had  seen 
something  foreign  and  altogether  amiss  in  the 
landlady's  eyes,  in  Ben  BroadwelPs,  and  what 
was  more  touching  to  him,  in  Davy  Acton's. 

Bellair  straightened  his  shoulders.  The  misery 
of  the  thing  oppressed  him  until  he  brought  it  to 
the  laugh.  Formerly  he  would  have  tried  to 
escape.  It  was  not  his  business  if  the  old  man 
would  not  be  helped;  he  had  tried.  If  a  man 
can  succeed  in  radiating  good  feelings  and  a  spirit 
of  helpfulness,  he  has  done  his  part;  the  conse 
quences  are  out  of  his  hand.  He  saw  that  he  had 
wanted  to  help ;  that  what  he  had  taken  from  the 
open  boat  and  from  the  woman  had  brought  this 
impulse  to  the  fore  in  all  his  thinking.  After  that 
he  must  be  an  artist  in  the  work;  must  become 
consummate;  but  having  done  his  best — he  must 
not  spend  energy  in  moods  and  personal  depres 
sions.  ...  As  for  Lot  &  Company,  he  must  meet 
them  on  their  own  footings — forgetting  every 
thing  but  their  points  of  view.  It  was  his  busi- 

[257] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 


ness  now  to  make  a  black  spot  clean,  and  it  was 
an  ugly  material  matter  to  be  coped  with  as  such, 
calling  forth  will-power  and  acumen  of  a  world 
kind.  He  would  see  if  he  was  to  fail. 

Bellair's  laugh  was  hard  at  first,  from  the 
tensity  of  the  temptation  to  give  up  and  let  New 
York  have  its  way  in  his  case.  Having  whipped 
that  (and  it  was  a  fair  afternoon's  work)  the 
smile  softened  a  little,  and  he  entered  upon  the 
task  of  the  evening. 

.  .  .  Brandt's  was  Just  as  he  had  left  it.  The 
crowd  increased;  the  quartette  came.  Bessie  was 
lovely  as  ever;  slightly  different,  since  he  had 
thought  of  her  so  much  in  the  old  hat.  She  did 
not  see  him,  but  her  smile  was  like  a  flower  of 
warmth  and  culture.  A  touch  of  the  old  excite 
ment  mounted  in  his  breast,  as  they  sang.  .  .  . 
This  was  New  York — among  men — food  and 
drink  and  warmth.  This,  too,  was  life;  these 
were  men  who  toil  every  day,  who  cannot  take 
months  to  dream  in,  who  cannot  cross  the  sea  and 
observe  heroes  and  saints,  but  men  who  crowd 
and  toil  and  fight,  even  expire,  for  their  pleasures 
•. — such  were  the  surgings  of  Bellair's  brain  in 
the  midst  of  the  music.  Bessie  was  the  arch  of 
it  all — the  arch  of  the  old  home,  New  York, — 
not  this  Bessie,  but  the  Bessie  that  might  be,  the 
significant  woman  it  was  his  work  to  make  and 
mould.  He  was  living  his  own  thoughts,  as  much 
as  listening.  They  vanished  when  the  music 

[258] 


LOT    &    COMPANY:    ir 


stopped.  .  .  .  He  sent  a  waiter  to  her  with  this 

written  on  a  blank  card : 

"Will  you  sing  Maying  for  an  old  friend*?" 
.  .  .  The  song  choked  the  wanderer,  and  this 

was  the  new  mystery  of  Maying — that  it  left  him 

at  the  stone  gate  of  a  door-yard  beyond  windy 

Auckland.  .  .  . 

He  sent  forward  a  gift  of  flowers,  and  was  in 
a  daze  when  she  came  to  him  and  sat  down. 

"I  have  only  a  few  minutes.  We  sing  once 
more  and  then  go.  How  dark  and  thin  you  look !" 

He  wanted  to  see  her  after  her  work  was  done, 
but  dared  not  ask  until  other  things  were  said. 
.  .  .  There  were  words  that  left  no  impress,  until 
he  heard  himself  saying: 

"I  read  the  New  York  papers  at  sea •" 

".  .  .  The  reporters  came  to  me.  I  had  told 
some  one  of  seeing  you.  It  was  just  after  I  had 
read  the  news.  It  was  new  to  me  to  have  re 
porters  come — and  somehow  they  got  what  they 
wanted " 

"Oh,  that  didn't  matter.  Only  it  was  all  un 
necessary.  My  accounts  there  were  never  other 
than  straight." 

She  said  she  was  glad.  He  saw  she  was  more 
glad  to  drop  the  subject,  and  didn't  exactly  be 
lieve  him. 

"And  you've  had  luck  away1?" 

"Yes,  in  several  ways — beside  money." 
[259] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 


It  seemed  necessary  to  add  the  last.  He  was 
struck  with  the  shame  and  pity  of  it;  yet  it  had 
to  do  with  seeing  her  again. 

"Are  you  going  to  be  in  New  York  long*?" 

"I  don't  know.  I'd  like  to  talk  with  you  to 
night,  after  you  are  through.  I  might  know  bet 
ter  then — how  long  I  am  to  stay.  ...  Is  it 
possible?" 

"Yes — yes,  I  think  so." 

"When?" 

"After  the  Castle." 

"Thank  you." 

"I'm  going  to  be  given  a  chance — in  two  weeks 
— a  real  chance,"  she  declared.  "I'll  tell  you 
later." 

He  tried  to  make  himself  believe  that  it  was 
just  as  it  had  been;  that  Bessie  was  the  same,  the 
meaning  of  New  York  and  the  fortune  that  had 
come  to  him.  How  could  she  sing  so,  if  it  were 
not  true*? 

"The  formal  try-out  is  two  weeks  from  to-day," 
she  added.  "The  rest  is  done.  It's  the  chance 
for  life — one  of  the  leads  with  the  King  Follies 
for  next  season.  They've  already  heard  me.  I 
need  to  do  no  more,  than  has  been  done?" 

"Just  singing?" 

"There  are  many  lines  and  some  dancing — oh, 
it's  a  chance  to  storm  the  piece — if  I  can." 

She  enlarged  and  detailed  the  promise;  Bellair 
forgot  many  things  he  had  to  say. 

[260] 


LOT    &    COMPANY:    n 


"Is  that  all  you  want,  Bessie?" 

"What?5 

"This  chance." 

Her  brows  knit  with  irritation.  It  was  her  high 
tide,  and  he  did  not  seem  able  to  rise  with  it. 
Still  she  dared  not  be  angry  with  him. 

"Don't  you  see — it's  everything?" 

"A  good  salary,  I  suppose?" 

"Oh,  yes " 

"And  you  are  all  fixed  for  it?" 

"All  but  clothes — the  old  struggle.  You  helped 
me  wonderfully  before." 

"Perhaps  I  could  help  you  again?" 

"Oh,  could  you?"  She  was  joyousness  aflame 
— her  whole  nature  winging  about  him. 

Deep  within,  he  was  empty  and  bleak  and  cold. 
He  wanted  to  give  her  money,  but  somehow  could 
not  make  it  easy  for  her.  It  cheapened  him  in 
his  own  eyes.  .  .  .  He  was  silent — his  thoughts 
having  crossed  the  world.  There  is  no  one  to  ex 
plain  the  sentence  that  ran  through  his  mind, 
".  .  .  who  buys  wine  for  the  Japanese  girls  in 
Dunedin,  since  Norcross  was  conscripted  in  the 
service  we  all  shall  know?" 

".  .  .  But  what  am  I  to  do  for  you,"  he  heard 
the  girl  inquire,  "since  you  are — not  going  away 
to-night?" 

He  quaked  at  the  old  recall.     Perhaps  he  had 
forgotten  a  little  how  to  be  sharp  and  city-wise; 
at  least,  he  did  not  make  himself  clear  at  once. 
[261] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 


"You  have  your  mornings,  don't  you,  Bessie1?" 

"Not  if  I'm  to  have  new  clothes.  That's  morn 
ing  work " 

"There's  so  much  to  say.  I've  thought  about 
you  in  a  lot  of  strange  places " 

She  leaned  forward  and  said  with  a  pitiful 
quiet,  "Once,  you  only  wanted  me  to  be  good." 

Then  it  dawned  on  him.  "Good  God,  Bessie," 
he  cried,  "I  don't  want  you  to  be  bad !" 

She  regarded  him,  playing  with  the  stem  of  her 
glass,  as  of  old  time.  A  curious  being  he  was  to 
her,  and  quite  inexplicable. 

"You  love  me?"  she  asked. 

The  bass  now  beckoned,  and  she  fled. 


Bellair  saw  that  one  may  have  a  gift  from  heaven, 
a  superb  singing-voice,  for  instance,  but  that  one 
must  also  furnish  the  thought  behind  it.  It  was 
not  that  Bessie  Brealt  lacked  ambition;  in  fact,  she 
had  plenty  of  that,  but  it  was  the  sort  that  cannot 
wait  for  real  results.  She  did  not  see  the  great 
singer ;  she  had  not  a  thought  to  give  with  her  song. 
She  had  not  the  emotions  upon  which  a  great  or 
gan  of  inspiration  might  be  built  with  the  years. 
Already  she  was  touched  with  the  world;  the 
world  stirred  her  desires;  matters  of  first  impor 
tance  in  her  mind  were  the  things  she  wanted. 

She  was  not  different  from  the  thousands,  from 
the  millions,  in  this.    He  had  not  altogether  lost 

[262] 


LOT    &    COMPANY:    n 


the  conviction  that  she  might  be  made  different. 
Already  she  was  singing  too  much;  her  voice 
would  never  reach  its  full  measure  under  these 
conditions.  She  would  suffer  the  fate  of  the 
countless  high-bred  colts  that  are  ruined  by  being 
raced  too  young,  being  denied  the  right  to  sound 
maturity.  She  should  have  been  out  of  the  life- 
struggle  for  years  yet;  in  the  country,  in  the  per 
fect  convent  of  natural  life.  She  had  not  an 
swered  the  true  call,  but  meanwhile  a  call  had 
come;  its  poison  had  entered.  Bellair  saw  that 
the  process  before  him,  if  any,  was  to  break  before 
building.  ...  If  consummate  art  were  used,  might 
not  Bessie  be  helped  to  conceive  the  great  career? 
Of  course  that  thought  must  come  first.  How 
ever,  he  was  far  from  believing  that  any  art  of 
his  could  be  consummate.  .  .  .  Speaking  that 
night  of  her  new  opportunity,  he  said : 

"They  will  rehearse  you  a  great  deal — then  per 
formances  twice  a  day — and  you're  not  more  than 
twenty " 


"Just  twenty- 


"You    should   be   forty — before   giving   your 
voice  so  much  work " 

She  laughed,     "Forty,  I  will  doubtless  be  fin 
ished.    Forty,  and  before,  the  fat  comes " 

"People  can  forget  fat — when  a  great  voice  is 
singing " 

"The  great  voices  have  sung  from  children," 
she  answered. 

[263] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 

He  believed  this  untrue;  at  least,  he  believed 
that  with  conservation,  a  more  sumptuous  power 
was  attainable.  "They  have  sung  naturally  per 
haps,  but  not  professionally.  If  they  were  called 
into  the  stress  of  life  very  young,  any  greatness 
afterward  was  in  spite  of  the  early  struggle,  not 
because  of  it.  The  voice  is  an  organ  that  wears 
out.  It  is  not  the  same  as  the  character  which 
improves  through  every  test.  If  you  were  to 
spend  ten  years  in  study — ten  years,  not  alone  in 
vocal  culture,  but  in  life  preparation  and  the  cul 
ture  of  happiness " 

"I  suppose  you  would  have  me  give  up  this 
chance  with  the  Follies?"  she  asked  with  the  con 
trol  that  suggests  imminent  fracture. 

"Yes.  There  is  nothing  that  passes  so  quickly 
— as  the  voice  of  a  season.  It  is  the  plaything  of 
a  people  without  memory.  If  you  had  ever  lis 
tened  to  the  best  of  the  light  opera  singers,  in 
contrast  to  a  really  developed  talent " 

But  this  was  not  the  way.  Bellair  finished  the 
sentence  vaguely,  not  with  the  sharpness  of  the 
idea  that  had  come  to  him.  She  was  nervous  and 
irritable  and  tired.  She  was  enduring  him,  much 
as  one  endures  a  brother  from  the  country,  for 
whom  allowances  must  be  made;  also  there  was 
a  deeper  reason. 

"Perhaps  what  I  think  of  you,"  he  said,  stir 
ring  to  thrill  her  some  way  if  possible,  "is  really 
a  fiery  thing,  Bessie.  I  think  of  you  singing  great 

[264] 


LOT    &    COMPANY:    n 

hordes  of  creatures  into  unity  of  idea  that  would 
lift  them  from  beasts  into  men.  The  world  is  so 
full  of  sorrow  and  dulness  of  seeing;  the  world  is  in 
a  cloud — I  want  you  to  sing  the  clouds  away.  If 
you  could  wait — just  wait,  as  one  holding  a  sure 
and  perfect  gift — until  the  real  call  comes  to  you, 
and  then  sing,  knowing  your  part,  not  in  pleasure 
and  amusement,  but  in  life,  in  the  stirring  centres 
of  struggle  and  strife.  If  you  would  go  forth 
singing  that  great  song  of  yours — from  your  soul ! 
It  would  be  like  a  voice  from  the  East — to  bring 
the  tatters  of  humanity  together.  I  felt  all  this 
vaguely  when  I  first  heard  you — six  months  ago. 
I  have  thought  of  it  nights  and  days  on  the  ocean 
— in  times  when  we  had  to  live  on  our  thoughts, 
hold  fast  to  them  or  go  mad,  for  we  had  two  days' 
water  for  ten,  and  two  days'  food  for  ten.  Then 
I  remembered  how  I  came  into  Brandt's,  torn  that 
night,  not  knowing  what  to  do — dull-eyed  and 
covered  with  wrongs.  You  sang  me  free.  For 
the  minute  you  sang  me  out  of  all  that.  I  could 
not  have  freed  myself  perhaps — without  that 
song.  I  know  that  there  are  thousands  of  men 

like  me  to  be  freed " 

Bellair  felt  on  sure  ground  now.  This  was 
his  particular  manner  and  message — the  finest 
and  strangest  thing  about  him — the  fact  that  had 
always  appeared,  making  him  different  even  from 
Fleury  and  the  woman, — the  thought  that  he  was 
average — and  not  more  impressionable  than  the 

[265] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 

multitudes.  If  they  could  be  reached,  they  would 
make  the  big  turn  that  he  had  been  shoved  into. 

".  .  .  Thousands  just  as  I  was  that  night, 
preyed  upon  by  trade,  dull-witted  with  the  ways 
of  trade,  the  smug,  the  bleak,  the  poisonous 
tricks  of  trade,  born  and  bred — their  real  life 
softened  and  watered  and  wasted  away  .  .  . 
thousands  who  could  turn  into  men  at  the  right 
song,  the  right  word.  I  always  thought  of  you, 
Bessie — as  one  of  the  great  helpers.  If  you  can 
wait,  the  way  will  come.  I  will  help  you  to  wait. 
I  came  back  to  New  York  to  help  you " 

She  picked  up  his  glass  and  smelled  it,  her  eyes 
twinkling.  "Splendid,"  she  said,  "but  are  you 
quite  sure  you  haven't  a  stick  in  this  ginger- 
ale?" 

Bellair  leaned  back.  He  hadn't  touched  it  yet. 
Perhaps  something  would  come,  better  than 
words.  It  was  not  straight-going — this  work  that 
he  had  dreamed ;  always  a  shock  in  bringing  down 
dreams  from  Sinai;  always  something  deadly  in 
meeting  the  empirical.  He  smiled.  "Just  ginger- 
ale,  Bessie,  but  you  are  a  stimulant.  You  are 
more  beautiful  than  before.  Not  quite  so  girlish, 
but  there  is  something  new  that  is  very  intense 
to  me " 

She  leaned  toward  him  now,  very  eager. 

"I  wondered  what  you  would  see.  The  differ 
ence  was  plain  at  once  in  you.  .  .  .  Tell  me  what 

you  see " 

[266] 


LOT    &    COMPANY:    n 

"Just  between  the  fold  of  the  eye  and  the 

point  of  the  chin "  he  answered.  .  .  . 

(Queerly  now  he  imagined  himself  talking  on  the 
shore  to  the  little  Gleam;  it  gave  him  just  the 
touch  that  helped.)  " — a  little  straightening  of 
the  oval,  and  the  little  puff  at  the  mouth-corners 
drawn  out.  Why,  Bessie,  it's  just  the  vanishing 
child.  And  you  are  taller.  I'm  almost  afraid  to 
speak — to  try  to  put  it  into  words,  how  pretty 
you  are " 

She  was  elate  and  puzzled,  too.  "Where  did 
you  get  anything  like  that^"  she  asked.  "It's 
what  made  me  remember  before.  Always  when 
you  get  through  preaching — you  pay  for  it " 

It  was  out  before  she  thought — yet  for 
once  the  exact  unerring  thing  that  was  in  her 
mind. 

He  treasured  it;  saw  that  his  appeal  was  cer 
tain  this  way;  that  he  must  be  of  the  world,  and 
right  glib  to  master  her.  The  way  of  reality  was 
slow;  he  must  never  fail  to  pay  for  preaching. 
.  .  .  They  laughed,  and  the  weariness  went  from 
her  eyes.  The  bloom  of  her  health  was  at  its 
height.  Now  as  Bellair  watched  her,  thinking 
of  the  world-ways,  she  suddenly  swept  home  to 
him — the  old  forbidden  adventure  of  her,  the 
meaning  of  money  and  nights,  her  homelessness, 
the  city,  the  song,  the  price  she  would  pay  if  he 
demanded  it. 

The  thing  was  upon  him  before  he  realised.  It 
[267] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 


had  all  been  the  new  Bellair  until  now.  His  body 
had  lain  as  if  in  a  vault  of  wax,  its  essential  forces 
in  suspension.  Suddenly  without  warning,  the 
wax  had  melted  away.  He  did  not  instantly  give 
battle  to  the  gust  of  desire — met  it  eye-to-eye. 
Bellair  felt  his  own  will,  and  knew  he  would  use 
it  presently.  He  was  rather  amazed  at  the  power 
of  the  thing  as  it  struck  him,  and  the  nature  of 
it,  so  utterly  detached  from  the  redolence  and 
effulgence  he  had  known  in  the  Stone  House.  This 
was  not  the  old  Hunting  Companion  who  had 
come  with  garlands;  a  minkish  aborigine,  this, 
who  had  come  empty-handed,  whose  hands  were 
out  to  be  filled. 

The  meaning  of  all  that  Stackhouse  had  left 
in  wallets  and  sea-girt  archipelagoes  was  in  this 
sullen-eyed  entity — in  the  0  formed  of  thirsting 
lips.  Bellair  tried  to  check  it  before  it  came — the 
thought  that  this  was  peculiarly  a  New  York 
manifestation,  one  destined  to  be  Bessie  Break's 
familiar  in  future  years.  .  .  .  He  did  not  have 
to  use  his  will.  He  lost  himself  in  thinking  of 
her  plight. 

".  .  .  Please  bring  the  coffee,"  she  was  saying 
to  the  waiter,  her  hand  lifted,  as  if  she  would 
touch  his  sleeve,  the  familiarity  of  one  who  had 
sung  here  many  nights.  "Yes,  he  will  have  cof 
fee.  He  is  merely  away  somewhere.  .  .  .  Yes, 
we  will  have  it  smoked  with  cognac — but  here — 
do  it  here.  I  like  to  see  it  burn.  .  .  ." 

[268] 


LOT    &    COMPANY:    u 


"Very  well,  Miss  Brealt- 


The  lights  had  all  come  back  to  Bellair.  He 
was  miserable — the  adventure  palled.  There  had 
been  no  lift,  nor  tumultuous  carrying  away.  The 
quick  change  chilled  him.  Her  words  one  by  one 
had  chilled  him.  ...  At  least,  he  had  demanded 
a  madness  to-night.  Bessie  did  not  have  the  wine 
of  madness  in  her  veins.  This  much  had  been 
accomplished.  He  could  not  break  training 
coldly.  .  .  .  And  now  he  felt  as  if  the  day  had 
drained  him  to  the  heart,  as  if  the  day  had  come 
to  an  end,  and  he  must  rest. 

He  turned  to  her.  "I  found  a  little  check-book 
for  you  to-day,  but  you  must  go  to  the  bank  and 
give  them  your  signature.  It  is  made  of  leather, 
small  enough  for  your  purse  almost.  The  bank 
book  is  with  it.  You  will  find  a  little  account 
started.  .  And  now  I  will  call  a  cab  for 


"But  your  coffee "  she  said. 

"Yes,  we  will  have  that " 

He  had  to  get  away  for  a  moment.  His  heart 
was  desolate  with  hunger.  .  .  .  The  smell  of  the 
kitchen  made  him  think  of  the  galley  of  a 
ship.  .  .  . 

"Oh,  what  can  I  do  for  you?"  Bessie  asked, 
when  he  returned. 

"It's  what  you  can  do  for  yourself  that  in 
terests  me " 

[269] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 

"But  I  must  go  with  the  Follies — if  I  win.  It's 
the  career — the  beginning!" 
"If  you  must." 
"And  when  shall  I  see  you*?" 
"Here  to-morrow  night — if  you  will." 
"Yes,"  she  said  eagerly. 

4 

On  the  way  to  Lot  &  Company's  the  next  morn 
ing  Bellair  smiled  at  the  sense  of  personal  in 
justice  which  had  returned  to  him.  He  held  fast 
to  a  sort  of  philosophical  calm,  but  permitted  his 
energy  to  be  excited  by  a  peculiar  blending  of 
contempt  and  desire  to  wring  the  truth  from  Lot 
&  Company  at  any  price. 

Suddenly  he  stopped.  Lot  &  Company  was 
merely  something  to  master.  Lot  &  Company  was 
but  an  organised  bit  of  the  world  which  he  had 
met;  all  men  had  their  own  organisations  to  face, 
to  comprehend  the  vileness  and  illusion  of,  and 
then  to  get  underfoot,  neck  and  other  vitals. 
.  .  .  Bessie  had  helped  him.  There  was  some 
thing  in  that.  .  .  .  He  felt  the  fighting  readiness 
within  him,  and  an  added  warning  not  to  raise 
his  voice.  He  must  deal  with  Lot  &  Company 
on  the  straight  low  plane  of  what- was- wanted. 
That  was  the  single  level  of  the  firm's  under 
standing. 

Davy  Acton  smiled  at  him  shyly — the  first 
face  after  the  pale  telephone-miss  at  the  door. 

[270] 


LOT    &    COMPANY:    n 

Davy  was  more  at  home  in  these  halls  and 
floors  than  in  the  hotel  dining-room.  Bellair 
heard  the  jovial  voice  of  Mr.  Rawter  behind  his 
partition.  From  the  distance,  Broadwell  glanced 
up  and  waved  at  him.  Mr.  Sproxley's  black  eyes 
were  fixed  in  his  direction  from  behind  the  grating 
of  his  cage.  Mr.  Sproxley  came  forward,  greeted 
him  and  returned.  Bellair  had  asked  to  see  the 
elder  Mr.  Wetherbee,  but  it  appeared  that  Mr. 
Seth  was  not  in. 

'Til  speak  with  Mr.  Nathan  Lot,"  said  Bel 
lair. 

"Mr.  Lot  is  occupied." 

"Mr.  Jabez  then." 

Mr.  Jabez  came  forth  presently.  .  .  .  He  had 
been  married  in  the  interval,  according  to  Broad- 
well  ;  the  fact  had  touched  the  wide,  limp  mouth. 
A  very  rich  girl  had  joined  pastures  with  Jabez; 
so  that  this  coming  forward  was  one  of  the  richest 
young  men  in  New  York,  representing  the  fortune 
of  his  mother  which  the  dreaming  Nathan  had 
put  into  works;  representing  the  fortune  he  had 
recently  wedded  with  or  without  dreaming,  and 
also  the  Lot  &  Company  millions.  Mr.  Jabez 
also  stood  for  the  modem  note  of  the  firm ;  he  was 
designed  to  bring  the  old  and  prosperous  con 
servatism  an  additional  new  and  up-to-the-hour 
force  of  suction.  .  .  .  Mr.  Jabez  smiled. 

"Hello,  Bellair,"  he  said  with  a  careless  regard, 
• — doubtless  part  of  the  modern  method,  the  laxity 
[271] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 

of  new  America  which  knows  no  caste.  The 
thought  had  formed  about  him  something  to  this 
effect:  "What's  the  use  of  me  carrying  it — you 
will  not  be  able  to  forget  you  are  talking  to  forty 
millions?" 

"Come  in,"  he  added  and  Bellair  followed. 

Mr.  Nathan  was  beyond  the  partition.  The 
atmosphere  of  the  dreamer  had  looped  over  into 
the  son's  sanctum.  .  .  .  Bellair  began  at  the 
point  of  his  handing  the  letter,  addressed  to  Mr. 
Nathan,  to  the  station-porter  at  the  last  moment 
from  the  platform  of  the  Savannah  Pullman. 

"But  mails  don't  miscarry,"  said  Mr.  Jabez, 
impatiently. 

"That's  a  fact.  Perhaps  mine  wasn't  mailed. 
Of  course,"  he  added  quietly,  "you  didn't  require 
that  letter.  You  had  my  note  of  release  in  the 
safe.  They  say  at  the  Trust  company  that  you 
collected  the  thousand  dollars  and  interest  within 
four  days  after  I  left." 

"Suppose  every  employe  who  has  a  deposit  of 
faith — should  tie  us  up  that  way?" 

"It  would  be  well  to  find  out  what  he  has  done 
— before  calling  in  the  police." 

"What  do  you  want,  Bellair?" 

Mr.  Jabez  could  hold  his  temper,  when  its  dis 
play  was  an  inconvenience. 

"I  want  a  paper  signed  by  you  for  Lot  &  Com 
pany,  stating  that  you  were  in  error  when  you 
charged  me  with  absconding  with  company  funds; 

[272] 


LOT   &    COMPANY:    n 

that  my  accounts  were  afterward  found  to  be  en 
tirely  correct." 

Jabez  Lot  surveyed  him.  There  was  some 
change  which  he  did  not  understand.  The  paper 
asked  for,  was  a  mere  matter  of  dictation,  a  thing 
that  might  be  forced  from  the  firm.  He  believed, 
however,  that  Bellair  wanted  something  else. 

"I  think  the  wisest  plan  for  us  will  be  to  turn 
your  case  over  to  our  attorney,"  he  said. 

"Why?"  Bellair  asked.  The  full  episode  of 
the  Nubian  File  and  Mr.  Prentidd  passed  through 
his  mind. 

"You  see  these  affairs  are  adjusted  better  out 
of  the  office " 

"Why?" 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,  Bellair,"  Mr.  Jabez  said 
patiently,  "Lot  &  Company  is  eager  to  make 
amends  for  its  mistake " 

There  was  a  slow,  quiet  cough,  the  most  natural 
and  thoughtless  sort  of  cough  from  the  inner  office. 
Bellair  wondered  if  the  modern  method  of  Mr. 
Jabez  was  wearing  a  bit  upon  the  dreamer,  or  if 
he  were  really  lost  in  some  inscrutable  departure 
of  mind. 

"That  would  seem  natural,"  said  he.  "It 
would  seem  the  direct,  clear  way.  I  am  not 
boisterous;  I  threaten  nothing." 

Bellair  knew  that  this  reminder  of  the  Pren 
tidd  episode  did  not  help  his  cause,  but  he  wished 
nothing  to  be  lost  from  the  force  he  possessed. 

[273] 


LOT      &      COMPANY 


At  the  same  time,  he  knew  that  it  was  the  policy 
of  Lot  &  Company  to  give  nothing  unforced*  He 
was  interested. 

"We  hadn't  thought  of  it,  of  course, n  the  fu 
ture  head  now  said,  "but  I  have  no  doubt  that 
Lot  &  Company  has  something  as  good  for  you 
as  your  old  place,  if  you " 

"But  I  do  not  want  a  position,"  said  Bellair. 

"What  is  it  you  want — again4?" 

"I  want  a  paper,  saying  that  I  stole  nothing, 
that  Lot  &  Company  was  in  error  in  charging  me 
with  taking  funds " 

"A  sort  of  explanation  of  our  course?" 

"Not  exactly — a  statement  of  your  course,  and 

that  you  incriminated  me  unjustly "  Bellair 

spoke  with  slow  clearness. 

"I  really  believe  you  had  better  see  Mr.  Jack 
son." 

"Why?' 

"Because  this  is  most  unusual *" 

Another  cough  was  heard. 

"Unusual — to  straighten  out  a  wrong  that  has 
hurt  a  man*?" 

"The  way  you  ask  it.  Lot  &  Company  is  will 
ing  to  take  you  back " 

"But  I  do  not  want  to  come  back.  You  say 
that  Lot  &  Company  is  eager  to  make 
amends " 

Davy  Acton  came  in,  saying  that  Mr.  Jabez 
was  called  to  the  advertising  department  for  a 

[274] 


LOT    &    COMPANY:    n 

moment.  .  .  .  To  Bellair  this  was  like  an  in 
terruption  of  an  interesting  story,  but  he  did  not 
wait  long.  The  scene  was  merely  shifted.  He 
was  in  Mr.  Nathan's  room.  Mr.  Rawter  joined 
them  and  Mr.  Jabez  returned  directly.  The  latter 
reopened  the  conversation  by  relating  justly  and 
patiently  what  Bellair  asked. 

"I  don't  see  why  he  shouldn't  have  such  a 
paper,"  said  Mr.  Nathan,  brushing  his  fingers 
through  his  hair,  as  if  to  force  his  thoughts  down. 
He  was  not  a  whit  older.  The  same  identical 
dandruff  was  upon  his  shoulders. 

Mr.  Rawter  laughed  j ovially :  "Don't  you  see ? 
That's  just  it.  Individually,  that  is  exactly  the 
situation — but  a  big  house — all  its  ramifications 
affected — and  who's  to  be  responsible  for  Lot  & 
Company  as  a  whole*?" 

"It  was  Lot  &  Company  that  incriminated  me," 
said  Bellair. 

"I  told  Mr.  Bellair "  Mr.  Jabez  began. 

"Mr.  Bellair  had  better  come  back  to  the  House 
— that  in  itself  is  our  acknowledgement,"  inter 
rupted  his  father.  Evidently  the  son  was  not 
yet  finished  in  training. 

Bellair  turned  to  Mr.  Jabez,  who  explained  the 
point  of  Bellair's  unwillingness  to  return.  There 
was  silence  at  this,  as  if  it  were  entirely  incom 
prehensible. 

"Have  you  taken  a  position  elsewhere  in  New 
York?"  Mr.  Nathan  asked. 

[275] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 

"No." 

"Are  you  going  to?" 

"On  that — I  cannot  be  sure." 

Mr.  Rawter  now  arose  and  came  forward,  plac 
ing  his  arm  across  Bellair's  shoulder.  The  lat 
ter  winced,  but  not  physically.  For  an  instant 
it  had  fired  and  fogged  him.  "Bellair,  my  boy, 
on  the  face  of  it — this  that  you  ask  would  seem 
very  simple,"  he  began.  "I  would  ask  it  in  your 
case,  but  think  of  us.  By  misunderstanding,  we 
let  out  the  fact  that  you  had  gone  with  funds  not 
your  own.  .  .  .  You  were  away.  We  looked  for 
you  everywhere  before  this  happened " 

"You  let  it  out,"  said  Bellair.  "It  is  very 
simple.  Call  it  in  again "  #* 

"It  isn't  so  simple." 

"I  might  come  back  to  work  for  you,"  Bellair 
added,  "and  those  who  knew  would  say,  'He 
hadn't  anything.  Instead  of  locking  him  up,  Lot 
&  Company  took  him  back  to  work  out  what  he 
had  taken '  " 

"I  might  give  you  a  personal  letter,  saying  I 
was  very  sorry,  that  in  the  bewilderment  of  the 
moment,  we  jumped  at  the  conclusion  that  you 
were  identified  with  the  missing  funds " 

"But  the  funds  were  not  missing.  You  could 
not  look  into  the  vault-box  without  finding  my 
letter." 

"Our  funds  were  not  all  in  that  box,  Bellair." 
[276] 


LOT    &    COMPANY:    n 

"They  would  know  by  next  morning,  if  I  had 
broken  into  your  bank " 

Mr.  Nathan  appeared  to  be  gone  from  them,  his 
eyes  softened  with  visions. 

"Write  him  the  letter,  Mr.  Rawter "  sug 
gested  Mr.  Jabez. 

It  struck  Bellair  like  a  hated  odour — this  tool 
for  unclean  work,  Rawter's  part  in  the  establish 
ment.  He  did  not  hasten  now,  though  he  knew 
they  were  waiting  for  his  answer.  The  head  of 
the  sales  resumed: 

"Yes,  I  will  do  this  gladly — in  fact,  it  would 
relieve  my  mind  to  do  this  in  the  most  cordial 
terms,  but  I  would  be  interested  first  in  learning 
just  what  disposition  of  it  was  intended " 

"It  would  be  mine,"  said  Bellair.  "Of  course, 
I  should  use  it  as  I  thought  fit." 

"I  was  thinking — in  adjusting  the  tone  of  the 
letter,  the  wording,  you  know " 

"Adjust  the  tone — the  wording — to  the  facts — 
that  would  seem  best.  But  I  would  not  accept 
such  a  letter  from  you  personally.  It  would  have 
to  be  written  for  Lot  &  Company " 

Mr.  Nathan  now  showed  signs  of  coming  back. 

"Let  us  have  a  day  to  think  it  over,  Bellair," 
he  said. 

"In  that  case — my  part  is  finished.  I  have 
asked  to  be  lifted  out  of  a  shameful  position.  You 
acknowledge  that  I  have  this  lift  coming."  It 
[277] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 


was  at  this  point  that  an  inspiration  arrived.  "All 
that  there  is  left,  naturally  and  equitably,  is  for 
you  to  do  your  part.  A  man's  name  is  of  more 
importance  than  a  firm's  name,  and  in  any  event, 
no  man  nor  firm  was  ever  hurt  by  squaring  a 
crooked  action." 

Mr.  Nathan  appeared  to  welcome  the  slight  heat 
of  this  remark.  It  brought  the  moment  nearer 
in  which  hands  might  be  washed  and  the  attorney 
summoned.  But  Bellair  was  not  heated.  Mr. 
Rawter  fumed  a  little. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  a  man's  name  being 
more  important  than  a  firm's  name*?"  he  de 
manded. 

"A  firm  shares  its  responsibility.  A  man  shoul 
ders  it  alone." 

"And  what  do  you  mean  by  your  part  being 
finished?' 

"I  have  worked  in  this  office  five  years,"  Bellair 
answered.  "I  never  saw  nor  heard  of  a  man  in 
my  position,  or  in  a  similar  position  of  asking 
something,  who  profited  by  allowing  delay.  I 
will  put  the  matter  out  of  mind  if  the  letter  is 
not  furnished  to-day.  Of  course,  I  expect  to  get 
it.  In  fact,  I  have  the  pressure  to  force  the  issue 
— although  it  seems  trivial  for  me  to  mention  it." 

Bellair  had  thought  of  Mr.  Prentidd  again. 
There  was  doubtless  a  case  of  some  kind  pending 
on  the  matter  of  the  Nubian  File.  Mr.  Prentidd 
was  no  man  to  stop.  It  would  not  have  been  set- 

[278] 


LOT    &    COMPANY:    n 

tied  within  six  months.  Lot  &  Company  knew  of 
his  knowledge  of  this  affair.  Bellair  plunged: 

"In  fact,  there  is  a  case  against  Lot  &  Com 
pany,  to  which  I  might  add  a  singular  weight  of 
testimony.  As  for  my  own,  it  would  go  to  the 
same  counsel " 

Mr.  Nathan  ruffled  his  hair  and  the  silent  fall 
of  grey  white  dust  followed.  Bellair  felt  pent. 
After  so  long  a  time  at  sea,  it  was  hard  for  him 
to  breathe  in  this  place.  He  wearied  now  of  the 
game,  although  Mr.  Nathan  was  palpably  down, 
present  in  the  material  plane. 

"Bellair,"  said  he,  turning  about  in  his  chair, 
"the  added  pressure  of  a  discredited  employe 
doesn't  count  for  much  as  testimony  in  any 
case " 

"I  realised  at  once  the  reason  why  you  dis 
credited  me — to  cripple  for  the  time  being  any 
knowledge  I  might  care  to  use  against  you.  How 
ever,  you  have  all  granted  that  I  am  not  dis 
credited.  The  only  item  mentioned  in  the  charge 
was  the  item  covered  by  the  Trust  company.  You 
would  have  to  work  with  Mr.  Sproxley  to  show 
a  deficit  in  the  books  having  to  do  with  my  depar 
ture " 

"Bellair,"  said  Mr.  Nathan,  "a  poor  man  can 
never  win  a  suit  against  a  strongly  backed 
firm " 

"That  is  unfortunately  true,"  said  Bellair,  "but 
J  am  not  poor.  I  came  into  an  inheritance  during 
[279] 


LOT     &      COMPANY 


the  past  six  months.  The  fact  is,  I  think  I  could 
spend  as  much  money  to  buy  justice  as  Lot  &  Com 
pany  would  be  willing  to  spend  to  prevent  it." 

"Bellair,"  said  Mr.  Nathan,  "you  will  find  it 
impossible  to  move  the  press  in  your  behalf  against 
the  firm  of  Lot  &  Company,  with  our  advertising 
contracts  among  the  valuable  ones  in  the  city 
lists " 

Knowledge  now  counted.  "You  do  not  adver 
tise  in  the  Record"  he  declared.  "I  have 
often  heard  from  the  advertising  department  that 
there  is  a  rupture  between  this  office  and  that 
paper,  dating  over  a  quarter  of  a  century " 

Mr.  Nathan  touched  a  button  for  his  ste 
nographer.  She  lit  upon  the  little  chair  beside 
him  like  a  winged  seed. 

"To  all  Parties  interested:  Mr.  Bellair  left 
our  employ  suddenly  and  without  furnishing  cus 
tomary  warning,"  the  president  dictated.  "Find 
ing  a  certain  explanation  in  the  vault,  instead  of 
a  sum  slightly  over  one  thousand  dollars  belong 
ing  to  this  firm,  we  hastily  assumed  that  his  sudden 
departure  was  energised  by  the  usual  conditions. 
In  fact,  such  a  suspicion  was  stated  to  the  press 
by  this  firm.  We  have  since  found  Mr.  Bellair's 
accounts  to  be  correct  in  every  detail,  and  we  fur 
nish  this  letter  to  express  in  part  our  concern  for 
Mr.  Bellair's  character  which  our  hasty  conclusion 
impinged  upon.  Mr.  Bellair  left  a  letter  of  ex- 

[280] 


LOT    &    COMPANY:    u 


planation  in  the  vault,  but  his  action  in  leaving 
abruptly  and  without  explanation  forced  us  on 
the  spur  of  the  moment  to  discredit  it.  However, 
the  statement  of  his  letter  proved  true,  and  the 
money  taken  by  Mr.  Bellair  was  the  exact  amount 
of  his  surety  bond,  with  stipulated  interest,  and 
his  salary  to  the  hour  of  departure." 

"You  have  heard  it?"  Mr.  Nathan  inquired. 

"Yes,  it  will  do,"  said  Bellair. 

The  president  nodded  to  his  stenographer,  who 
whisked  out.  "It  will  be  ready  in  a  moment,"  he 
said.  "I  will  sign  it  for  Lot  &  Company.  .  .  . 
Bellair,  are  you  sure  you  don't  want  your  old  desk 
back?" 

"Quite  sure,"  said  Bellair. 

Mr.  Jabez  and  Mr.  Rawter  had  departed.  Bel 
lair  glanced  at  his  watch.  It  was  a  moment  past 
the  hour  of  Mr.  BroadwelPs  leaving  for  luncheon. 
The  advertising-man,  of  course,  was  aware  of  his 
presence  in  the  lower  office.  Bellair  stepped  out, 
however,  to  make  sure  of  his  appointment.  Broad- 
well,  hat  in  hand,  was  engaged  in  talk  with  Mr. 
Jabez.  Bellair  returned  to  the  office  of  the  presi 
dent  to  wait  for  the  stenographer.  Not  more  than 
two  minutes  later,  Davy  Acton  came  in  with  this 
message : 

"Mighty  sorry  to  call  luncheon  off.  Am  hurry 
ing  to  catch  a  train  for  Philadelphia  for  the  rest 
of  the  day.  Will  see  you  later. — Broadwell." 

[281] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 


.  .  .  Bellair  folded  this  thoughtfully.  The 
stenographer  brought  the  letter  with  copy.  The 
front  draft  was  approved  for  signature,  and  Bel- 
lair's  morning  work  accomplished. 

In  the  hall  he  met  Davy  Acton,  and  followed 
a  quick  impulse. 

"Davy,  lad,  how  soon  will  you  be  ready  to  go 
out  to  lunch?" 

"In  about  three  minutes " 

"I'll  wait  for  you.    I'm  going  your  way." 

Davy's  customary  exit  was  the  side-door.  Bel- 
lair  waited  there  accordingly.  The  girls  were 
coming  down  the  iron  stairway  from  the  bindery. 
He  stepped  back  in  the  shadow  to  let  them  pass. 
There  were  figures  and  faces  that  clutched  at  his 
throat.  .  .  .  And  then  a  story  began,  half  way 
up  the  first  flight,  and  came  nearer  and  nearer,  the 
voice  carrying  easily  to  one  who  listened  with 
emotion : 

"Did  you  know  that  Mr.  Bellair  was  back1? 
.  .  .  Bellair,  the  absconding  clerk — Mr.  Sprox- 
ley's  assistant.  Lot  &  Company  has  refused  to 
prosecute.  He  will  not  be  arrested.  .  .  .  And 
think  of  his  nerve — asking  his  old  position 
back " 

.  .  .  They  saw  merely  the  back  of  a  man,  if 
they  saw  him  at  all.  The  talk  was  not  interrupted 
on  the  way  to  the  street  and  beyond.  .  .  .  Bellair 
came  up  with  a  start  to  find  the  boy  at  his  side. 


LOT    &    COMPANY:    n 


For  a  square  or  two,  Davy  Acton  walking 
beside  him,  Bellair  did  not  speak.  He  had 
needed  that  last  bit.  The  morning  would  have 
blurred  his  hard-earned  knowledge  of  Lot  &  Com 
pany  and  the  world,  without  that  moment  under 
the  iron  stairs.  It  was  hard  to  take,  but  a  man 
mustn't  forget  such  realities  as  this.  He  loses  his 
grip  on  the  world  when  he  forgets.  Happy  to 
lose,  of  course,  but  the  point  of  his  effectiveness 
is  gone  when  these  rock-bottom  actualities  are  for 
gotten.  .  .  .  He  looked  down,  Davy  was  hopping 
every  third  step  to  keep  up.  Bellair  had  quick 
ened  his  pace  to  put  the  stench  of  the  swamp 
farther  behind  him,  but  it  was  still  in  his  nostrils. 
.  .  .  He  laughed. 

"I  was  thinking,  Davy,  and  the  thoughts  were 
like  spurs.  We're  in  no  hurry,  really." 

He  would  not  take  the  boy  to  a  stately  and 
formal  dining-room  for  him  to  be  embarrassed. 
Bellair  felt  that  he  had  something  very  precious 
along;  a  far  graver  solution  than  luncheon  with 
Broadwell.  They  sat  down  at  a  little  table  in 
the  corner  of  one  of  the  less  crowded  restaurants. 
As  they  waited,  Bellair  said,  drawing  out  the 
paper  he  had  received  from  the  dreaming  Mr. 
Nathan : 

"I  want  you  to  see  this  first.  In  fact,  I  was 
particularly  concerned  about  getting  it,  just  to 

[283] 


LOT     &      COMPANY 


show  you.  Davy,  it  hit  me  like  a  rock — the  way 
you  looked  at  me  in  the  hotel  yesterday.  I 
couldn't  have  that.  We've  been  too  good 
friends " 

Davy  read  the  letter  carefully,  deep  responsibil 
ity  upon  his  understanding. 

"Did  you  have  trouble  getting  it?"  he  asked 
finally. 

"It  took  the  forenoon,  Davy.  I  found  that  they 
had  not  taken  the  trouble  to  tell  my  old  friends 
on  the  different  floors  that  I  was  not  a  thief.  What 
was  worse  for  me,  they  let  you  think  so  " 

"I  wouldn't  believe  it  at  first,"  said  Davy. 

"I'm  glad  of  that." 

"I  said  to  Mr.  Broadwell,  that  they'd  find  out 
differently  and  be  sorry.  They  didn't  let  us  know 
when  they  found  out " 

"That's  why  it  was  important  for  me  to  come 
back " 

"But  why  did  you  go  away  like  that*?" 

The  boy's  mind  dwelt  in  the  fine  sense  of  being 
treated  as  an  equal.  Bellair  felt  called  upon  to  be 
very  explicit  and  fair: 

"I  came  to  the  time  when  I  couldn't  live  with 
myself  any  longer — and  stay  in  the  cage  with  Mr. 
Sproxley.  I  saw  a  ship  in  the  harbour  the  Sunday 
before — a  sailing-ship,"  he  began,  and  then  made 
a  picture  of  it;  also  of  his  own  hopelessness  and 
what  the  years  would  mean,  not  touching  specific 
dishonesties,  but  suggesting  the  atmosphere  which 

[284] 


LOT    &    COMPANY:    n 

had  suddenly  become  poisonous  to  him.  He  did 
not  forget  that  Davy  had  no  other  place,  that  he 
must  keep  a  certain  sense  of  loyalty,  or  be  de 
stroyed  in  such  conditions. 

"It  would  have  taken  two  weeks  to  get  clear 
in  the  ordinary  way,"  he  added.  "My  decision 
came  the  day  of  the  squabble  with  Mr.  Prentidd 
in  the  office.  I  had  to  leave  right  then — was  off 
for  Savannah  that  very  night " 

"And  you  found  the  ship  there?"  Davy  asked 
eagerly. 

"I  beat  her  there  a  day  and  a  half.  Then  we 
sailed  for  South  America.  I  want  to  tell  you  the 
whole  story.  This  is  not  the  place.  Could  you 
come  up  in  my  room  after  supper  to-night?" 

"I  think  my  mother  will  let  me  come " 

"Tell  me  about  your  mother,  Davy.  Is  she 
well*?  I  remember  I  meant  to  meet  her  some 
time." 

"Yes — just  the  same.  You  know  she  works  a 
little,  too " 

"Where?"  Bellair  asked  absently. 

Davy  swallowed,  and  before  he  spoke,  the  man 
saw  with  a  queer  thrill  that  the  boy  hadn't  yet 
learned  to  lie. 

"Well,  she  goes  out  three  days  a  week — to  do 
the  laundry  work — for  people  who  have  had  her  a 
long  time." 

"Oh,  I  see." 

"I'm  hoping  to  get  where  she  won't  have  to." 

[285] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 

"Of  course." 

The  dinner  was  brought.  Bellair  tried  to  make 
up  for  the  place — in  quantity.  Neither  spoke  for 
the  present.  The  man  was  hungry,  too. 

"I'm  glad  you  told  me  that,"  he  said  after  a 
time,  "glad  you  told  me  just  that  way." 

Davy  applied  himself  further.  Manifestly  here 
was  a  point  that  he  need  not  follow. 

"Davy,  you'll  come  through.  You're  starting 
in  the  right  hard  way — the  old-fashioned  way.  It 
won't  be  so  slow  as  you  think "  He  was  re 
minded  now  of  what  Fleury  had  said  about  the 
little  Gleam  that  first  night  in  the  open  boat. 

"Slow  but  sure  at  Lot  &  Company's — if  a  fel 
low  does  his  part  and  works  hard " 

Davy  was  being  brought  up  in  the  usual  way. 

Bellair  said:  "I'm  coming  over  to  see  you  at 
your  house  some  evening  soon — if  I  may." 

"Sure.  ...  It  isn't  much  of  a  house." 

"I'm  not  so  certain  about  that.  Anyway,  I 
want  to  come.  We'll  talk  about  it  again  this 
evening.  You  ask  your  mother  when  she'll  let 


"You  might  come  to-night — instead  of  me  com 
ing  to  the  hotel " 

"No,  I  want  to  talk  with  you  alone." 
Davy  looked  relieved.  ...  He  was  on  his  way 
presently,  and  the  town  appeared  better  to  Bellair 
that  afternoon.    At  five  he  was  in  the  hotel-lobby 
[286] 


LOT    &    COMPANY:    n 

when  a  hand  plucked  his  sleeve  and  he  looked 
down  into  the  whitest,  most  terrified  face,  he  had 
ever  seen. 

"I'm  fired !"  was  the  intelligence  that  came  up 
from  it,  and  there  was  reproach,  too. 

"Come  on  upstairs,  but  first  take  it  from  me 
that  you'll  be  glad  of  it,  in  ten  minutes " 

Bellair  had  to  furnish  a  swift,  heroic  antidote 
for  that  agony. 

"You  haven't  been  home,  of  course  $"  the  man 
asked  in  the  elevator. 

"No." 

"Could  we  send  a  messenger  to  your  mother — 
so  she  wouldn't  worry,  and  you  wouldn't  have  to 
go  home  until  after  we  talk*?" 

"Yes." 

"All  right,  I'll  see  to  that  at  once." 

Davy  wrote  with  trembling  hands.  The  mes 
senger  was  asked  to  bring  an  answer  from  Mrs. 
Acton. 

"Now  tell  me,"  said  Bellair. 

"Old  Mr.  Seth  was  down  when  I  got  back.  You 
know  he  only  comes  down  for  an  hour  or  two  now 
in  the  middle  of  the  day.  He  called  me  to  him, 
and  asked  where  I  had  been  to  lunch.  I  said  with 
you.  That  was  all,  until  four  o'clock,  when  Mr. 
Eben  came  to  me  and  asked  if  you  had  shown  me 
anything — a  letter  from  Lot  &  Company,  for  in 
stance.  I  said  yes.  He  went  away,  and  at  half- 

[287] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 


past  four,  he  called  me  again,  handed  me  my 
weekly  envelope,  saying  that  they  would  not  need 
me  any  longer.  I  came  right  here.  It  seemed, 
I  couldn't  go  home " 

"Davy,  lad,  I'm  glad  I'm  not  broke,  but  if  I 
were  and  couldn't  do  a  thing  to  make  up — it 
would  be  a  lucky  day  for  you." 

Bell  air  ordered  supper  served  in  the  room. 
They  were  free  and  alone.  Faith  returned  to  the 
boy,  enough  for  the  hour.  Davy  was  consulted 
carefully  upon  the  details  of  the  order,  a  subtle 
suggestion  from  Bellair  from  time  to  time.  Some 
thing  of  the  long  dinners  on  the  Jade  had  come  to 
his  mind  in  this  role.  He  had  learned  much  about 
food  that  voyage,  the  profundity  and  emptiness  of 
the  subject.  Bellair  told  his  story,  making  it  very 
clear  to  Davy — this  at  first: 

"The  office  was  doing  to  me  just  what  it  would 
do  to  you,  Davy.  It  was  breaking  me  down. 
The  floors  of  Lot  &  Company  are  filled  with  heart 
broken  men.  They  do  not  know  it  well ;  some  of 
them  could  never  know,  but  there  are  secrets  in 
the  breasts  of  men  there,  that  you  wouldn't  dream 
of.  It  is  so  all  over  New  York.  Trade  makes  it 
so — offices,  the  entire  city,  crowded  with  heart 
broken  men.  .  .  .  They  say  first,  'Why,  every 
one  is  out  for  himself  and  the  dollar — why  not 
I?'  You  and  I  were  taught  so  in  our  little  school 
ing.  Then  Lot  &  Company  taught  us.  They  are 
old  masters — generations  of  teachers.  Cramped 

[288] 


LOT   &    COMPANY:    u 

and  bleak,  but  loyal  to  the  one  verb — get.  In  all 
the  Lot  family,  Davy,  there  is  not  a  true  life  prin 
ciple  such  as  you  brought  to  the  office  in  the  be 
ginning.  But  if  Lot  &  Company  were  unique — 
they  would  be  an  interesting  study.  The  city  is 
crowded  with  such  firms — heart-breakers  of  men, 
the  slow,  daily,  terrible  grind;  every  movement, 
every  expression,  a  lie — until  to  those  inside,  the 
lie  is  reality — and  the  truth  a  forbidden  and  ter 
rible  stranger.  Every  man  has  his  Lot  & 
Company. 

"Davy,  I  breathed  a  bit  of  open  that  Sunday — 
so  that  I  could  see,  but  the  next  morning  it  closed 
about  me  again.  It  was  Mr.  Prentidd  who  helped 
me  out.  They  stole  from  him  and  lied  to  him. 
Face  to  face,  eye  to  eye,  old  Seth  Wetherbee,  the 
Quaker,  lied  to  him,  taking  hundreds  of  dollars  in 
the  lie — millionaires  taking  hundreds  of  dollars 
from  a  poor  inventor.  I  had  the  book  of  the  Lon 
don  transaction  before  me,  which  showed  the  truth 
as  they  talked,  and  Mr.  Sproxley  came  and  took 
the  book  from  me,  and  shut  it  in  the  safe.  .  .  . 
And  then  when  I  left,  they  knew  I  had  their 
secrets.  You  wondered  why  they  called  me  a 
thief,  when  I  was  not.  It  was  plain,  Davy,  to 
spoil  anything  I  might  say  about  their  methods. 
Instantly  they  discredited  me,  because  I  was  one 
of  six  or  seven  in  the  office  who  knew  that  they 
were  thieves  and  liars.  And  why  did  they  fire  you 
to-day  for  lunching  with  me  ?  Because  they  were 

[289] 


LOT      &      COMPANY 


afraid  of  what  I  might  have  told  you.  And  why 
did  they  send  Broadwell  to  Philadelphia  when 
they  knew  he  was  to  have  lunch  with  me"?  For 
fear  of  what  I  might  tell  Broadwell.  Even  now 
they  will  not  tell  the  different  floors  that  I  am 
exonerated.  .  .  .  But  they  are  afraid,  Davy — 
that's  their  hell.  That  is  their  life — fear  and  the 
lie.  Imagine  men  standing  straight  up  to  heaven 
— spines  lifted  from  the  ground,  but  going  back 
to  the  ground — who  knows  but  their  souls  already 
belly-down1? — because  they  break  the  hearts  of 
men,  and  live  with  fear  and  the  lie." 

He  told  of  Fleury  and  Stackhouse  and  the  Far 
away  Woman — of  McArliss,  of  striking  the  reef, 
and  day  by  day  in  the  open  boat.  .  .  .  Davy's 
eyes  bulged.  The  boy  saw  Stackhouse  at  one  end 
and  quiet  manhood  in  the  other.  He  sat  with  Bel- 
lair,  whom  he  could  understand,  in  the  point  of 
balance  between  these  forces.  Bellair  told  of  the 
stars  and  the  child,  and  the  distance  from  which 
they  viewed  the  little  things  of  the  world  and  the 
grand  simplicity  of  God.  He  pictured  the  man 
Fleury  had  become — the  straight-seeing,  the  fear 
less,  the  ignited  man,  who  mastered  the  lie  in  his 
heart  and  the  animal  in  his  abdomen — the  man  he, 
Bellair,  wanted  to  be,  and  wanted  Davy  to  be. 
.  .  .  The  Formahaut  came,  with  Spika  agleam  to 
the  northward,  and  Fleury  died — the  picture  in 
his  mind  of  a  man,  rising  rather  than  falling.  .  .  . 
Bellair  told  him  of  the  first  moment  he  heard  the 
[290] 


LOT   &    COMPANY:    n 

real  voice  of  Fleury,  as  he  stood  on  the  tilted  deck 
of  the  Jade  in  the  dark,  while  he  went  back  for 
water.  .  .  .  'Til  hold  a  place  for  you!" 

"A  real  man  always  says  that,  Davy.  A  real 
man  will  hold  a  place  for  you.  And  I  thought,  as 
I  saw  Stackhouse  die  and  remembered  his  life, 
that  he  was  the  saddest  and  most  terrible  animal 
in  human  form.  He  was  a  glutton  and  a  coward, 
but  mainly  he  broke  his  own  heart  and  not  others. 
He  was  a  slave  to  his  stomach,  but  there  was  life, 
not  creeping  death,  in  his  mind.  I  saw  the  pictures 
that  moved  there,  low,  vivid  pictures,  animal 
dreams,  but  he  was  not  a  destroyer  of  children  or 
a  breaker  of  the  hearts  of  men.  Low  Nature  was 
loose  in  him,  but  it  was  not  a  predatory  instinct 
alone.  Having  enough,  he  could  give.  He  could 
give  fifty  thousand  dollars  and  a  wallet  full  of 
valuable  papers  for  a  bottle  of  whiskey — but  the 
Lots  and  the  Wetherbees  would  have  died  clutch 
ing  their  money.  I  learned  Stackhouse,  Davy — 
only  to  understand  that  there  is  a  depth  below  his. 
I  think  I  should  have  taken  you  out  somehow — ; 
if  they  hadn't  let  you  go " 

Davy  asked  questions,  and  the  story  came  bet 
ter  and  better.  The  thing  that  held  him  especially 
was  the  last  days  in  the  open  boat. 

"And  did  you  really  suffer  less  when  you  de 
cided  to  make  it  a  fast4?" 

"Yes,  that  was  true  in  my  case.  Many  have  set 
out  to  fast  ten  days,  and  done  with  as  little  as  we 

[291] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 


did.  Of  course  it  was  harrowing,  because  we 
didn't  know  when  it  would  end;  then  the  little 
baby  was  there,  and  the  mother." 

"And  you  think  he  was  really  as  happy  as  he 
said?' 

"Davy,  lad,  Fleury  was  a  prince.  He  would 
have  given  you  his  shirt.  He  had  himself  going 
so  strong  for  us — that  the  fire  of  happiness  ran 
through  him.  I'll  give  you  some  books  about  that. 
It's  really  a  fact.  You  can't  suffer  pain,  when 
you've  got  something  really  fine  up  your  sleeve 
for  another.  Perhaps  you've  felt  it  at  Christ- 

"You're  all  out  of  yourself-like " 

"That's  it,"  said  the  man. 

More  words  would  have  stuck  in  his  throat. 
Davy  got  it — got  something  of  it.  Bellair  had 
come  to  ask  so  little,  that  this  seemed  a  great  deal. 
.  .  .  He  followed  Davy  down  and  into  the  street. 
It  was  still  two  hours  before  he  was  due  at  the 
Castle. 

"How  long  does  it  take  to  get  to  your  house, 
Davy?" 

"About  twenty-five  minutes.  It's  'way  down 
town." 

"Suppose  I  should  go  home  and  meet  your 
mother.  I  have  the  time " 

"Yes,  come  with  me.     She  will  be  watching." 

They  passed  a  delicatessen-store,  ripe  cherries  in 
the  window,  and  a  counter  full  of  provisions  that 
[292] 


LOT   &    COMPANY:    n 


would  have  been  far  more  thrilling  had  they  not 
dined  so  well. 

"Do  you  suppose  we  might  take  home  an  arm 
ful  of  these  things'?"  Bellair  asked. 

Davy  dissuaded  weakly.  .  .  .  That  clerk  must 
have  thought  him  mad,  for  Bellair  merely  pointed 
to  bottles  and  jars  and  baskets — until  they  were 
both  loaded.  There  was  a  kind  of  passion  about 
it  for  the  man.  He  hated  to  stop ;  in  fact  did  not, 
until  it  occurred  to  him  that  this  was  not  the  last 
night  of  the  world,  and  that  Davy  doubtless  re 
quired  many  more  substantial  matters,  which 
would  furnish  a  rapturous  forenoon  among  the 
stores — to-morrow  forenoon.  .  .  . 

They  sat  in  an  almost  empty  downtown  subway 
train,  their  bundles  about  them,  the  stops  called 
by  the  guard.  They  both  hunched  a  little,  when 
the  stop  nearest  Lot  &  Company's  was  called,  but 
did  not  speak.  Farther  and  farther  downtown — 
the  last  passengers  leaving.  It  was  the  hour  the 
crowds  move  upward.  Strange  deep  moments  for 
Bellair — moments  in  which  this  was  more  than 
Davy  sitting  beside  him.  This  was  Boy — Davy 
Acton  but  the  symbol  of  a  great  need. 


A  hurried  walk  to  the  east  with  their  bun 
dles  to  a  quarter  that  Bellair  had  not  known 
before,  past  the  great  stretches  of  massive 
buildings  which  the  day  had  abandoned,  to  a  low 

[293] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 


and  older  sort  that  carried  on  a  night-life  of  their 
own,  where  children  cried,  halls  were  narrow,  and 
the  warmth  became  heaviness.  ...  A  plump 
little  woman  who  had  not  lost  hope  (she  did  not 
see  the  stranger  at  first  because  the  boy  filled 
her  eyes) ;  a  dark,  second-floor  hall,  a  little  room 
with  a  lamp  and  a  red  table-cloth ;  a  door  at  either 
end,  and  opposite  the  door  they  entered,  one  win 
dow.  .  .  .  How  bewildered  she  was  with  the 
bundles,  desiring  to  prepare  something  for  them 
right  away.  Indeed,  it  would  have  helped  her  to 
be  active  in  their  behalf.  .  .  .  Bellair  was 
smiling. 

Davy  told  part  and  Bellair  part.  Presently  all 
was  forgotten  in  the  presence  of  the  calamity  that 
had  befallen.  It  was  slow  to  change  her  mind 
about  Lot  &  Company.  Davy  had  impressed  upon 
her  for  two  years  the  lessons  administered  there. 
Not  to  be  changed  in  a  moment,  this  estimate — 
that  before  all  poverty,  before  all  need,  and  above 
all  hope,  a  place  at  Lot  &  Company's  was  a  per 
manent  place,  "if  a  fellow  did  his  part" — that 
Lot  &  Company  was  an  honest  house.  Davy  told 
of  the  paper  Mr.  Bellair  had  forced  from  them, 
and  Bellair  touched  upon  the  life  he  had  led  in 
those  halls,  just  a  little  and  with  haste.  To  help 
him  to  speak  authoritatively,  he  added  that  he 
would  help  Davy  to  another  position.  .  .  .  Then 
he  looked  around,  and  glanced  at  his  watch.  There 
was  a  small  anteroom  which  they  occupied.  .  .  . 
[294]  . 


LOT   &    COMPANY:    n 


Bellair  had  asked  about  the  other  door.  "An 
empty  room,"  Mrs.  Acton  told  him. 

Of  course  it  was  for  rent.  On  the  spur  of  the 
moment,  he  declared  he  would  take  it,  asked  her 
to  rent  it  for  him,  insisting  on  paying  in  advance. 
He  would  come  in  the  morning — have  his  things 
brought  later.  .  .  .  No,  Davy  was  not  to  look 
for  a  position  to-morrow.  Davy  must  devote  him 
self  to  him  to-morrow.  He  left  them  happily. 
The  mother  called  after  him  in  hopeless  excite 
ment  that  he  had  left  enough  to  rent  the  room  all 
summer. 

He  did  not  show  the  Lot  &  Company  paper  to 
Bessie;  in  fact,  he  never  showed  it  but  once,  and 
that  was  to  Davy  Acton  immediately  after  it  was 
obtained.  He  had  thought  of  taking  it  across  the 
street  to  show  the  landlady,  but  perhaps  that 
would  merely  have  added  to  her  living  confusion. 
It  had  been  most  important  for  Davy,  but  to 
reopen  the  subject  with  Bessie,  his  manner  might 
have  touched  an  "I-told-you-so"  indelicacy.  .  .  . 
She  was  happy  when  he  found  her  that  night. 
Clothes  in  quantity  were  already  begun — the  next 
ten  forenoons  at  the  dressmakers'.  She  thanked 
him  charmingly,  studied  him  with  a  quizzical  ex 
pression  that  invariably  haunted  him  afterward. 

Bellair  could  never  tell  just  what  would  do  it, 
but  occasionally  through  an  hour's  chat,  he  would 
say  something,  just  enough  above  her  comprehen 
sion  to  challenge  her.  Once  opened,  her  faculties 

[295] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 

were  not  slow,  but  the  life  she  had  chosen,  held  her 
mind  so  consistently  to  its  common  level  that  the 
habit  was  formed.  Mainly  when  he  spoke  above 
her,  she  ceased  to  listen,  ignored  him;  but  when 
something  he  said  just  hit  home,  she  praised  him 
with  animation,  as  one  would  a  sudden  gleam  of 
unexpected  intelligence  on  the  part  of  a  child. 
It  became  one  of  his  most  remarkable  real 
isations  that  a  man  who  has  anything  worth  while 
to  say  must  come  down  to  say  it,  just  as  certainly 
as  he  must  go  up  to  get  it. 

The  sense  of  adventure  with  her  did  not  return 
this  night,  though  she  had  seemed  to  accept  him 
differently  from  before ;  as  if  he  belonged,  part  of 
her  impediment  mainly,  but  at  moments  of  sur 
passing  value,  like  a  machine  that  one  packs  a 
day  for  a  half-hour's  work  it  may  do.  His  money 
had  purchased  something. 

Bellair  sat  in  the  dark  of  his  room,  feet  on  the 
window-sill,  hat  still  on,  at  two  o'clock,  his  last 
night  in  the  hotel  where  he  never  had  belonged. 
He  was  very  tired  and  longed  for  sleep;  and  yet 
there  was  a  different  longing  for  sleep  than  that 
which  belonged  to  physical  weariness.  It  had  to 
do  with  his  hunger  for  the  Faraway  Woman.  This 
startled  him.  What  was  that  refreshing  mystery 
afterward4?  Did  he  go  to  her  in  sleep — did  she 
come?  Why  was  it  that  the  burden  of  parting 
invariably  increased  through  the  long  days'?  It 
had  been  so  on  the  ship.  In  the  morning  he  could 
[296] 


LOT   &    COMPANY:    n 

live;  then  the  hours  settled  down,  until  it  seemed 
he  must  leap  back  to  her;  the  ship's  ever  increas 
ing  distance  at  times  literally  twisting  his  facul 
ties  until  he  was  dazed  with  pain. 

He  had  not  thought  of  this  before.  Why  was 
it  always  when  the  pressure  increased  and  the  ar 
dour  mounted — that  he  longed  for  sleep?  .  .  . 
Nothing  came  to  his  work-a-day  brain  from  the 
nights.  His  dreams  were  of  lesser  matters — and 
yet,  something  within  pulled  him  to  unconscious 
ness  like  the  rush  of  a  tide.  It  gave  him  a  sense 
of  the  vastness,  a  glimpse  of  the  inner  beauty  of 
life. 

Far  below  in  the  side-street  a  heavy,  slow-trot 
ting  horse  clattered  by.  The  motors  were  more 
and  more  hushed,  even  the  hell  of  Broadway  sub 
dued.  A  different  set  of  sounds  came  home  to  him, 
but  he  did  not  interpret  for  the  present;  their 
activity  playing  upon  deeps  of  their  own — a 
bridge  swung  open  between  them  and  his  exterior 
thoughts.  .  .  . 

Slowly  all  exterior  matters  slipped  away — the 
mother  and  Davy  and  Bessie.  The  bridge  be 
tween  the  surface  and  the  deeps  swung  to,  and  he 
heard  the  sounds  that  had  been  thrilling  his  real 
being  all  the  time  as  he  sat  by  the  window — the 
liner  whistles  that  crossed  Manhattan  from  the 
harbour,  the  deep-sea  bayings  which  seemed  to  be 
calling  him  home. 

[297] 


LOT      &     COMPANY 


Bellair  must  have  rested  well  in  a  few  hours, 
for  he  arose  early,  feeling  very  fit  in  and 
out.  For  years  the  man  he  had  seen  in  the 
glass  when  he  was  alone,  had  aroused  little  or  no 
curiosity;  a  sort  of  customary  forbearance  rather. 
The  fact  is,  he  had  not  looked  close  for  years. 
This  morning  as  he  shaved,  something  new  re 
garded  him  from  the  face,  still  deeply  dark  from 
the  open  boat.  He  called  it  a  glint,  but  would 
have  designated  it  as  something  that  had  to  do 
with  power  in  another.  It  was  fixed — something 
earned  and  delivered. 

Perhaps  it  was  something  she  had  seen. 

This  animated  him.  It  had  come  from  Fleury 
and  the  fasting,  but  most  of  all  from  contemplat 
ing  her  face  and  her  nature.  Was  it  the  arousing 
of  his  own  latent  will?  Was  it  because  he  was 
lifted  above  Lot  &  Company"?  What  part  of  it 
had  come  from  the  anguish  of  separation*?  Truly 
a  man  must  build  something  if  he  manages  to 
live  against  the  quickened  beat  of  a  hungry 
heart. 

The  face  was  very  thin,  too.  He  had  felt  that 
so  often  as  he  used  the  morning  knife,  but  he  saw 
it  now.  Thin  and  dark,  and  the  boy  gone  alto 
gether.  .  .  .  Bellair  smiled.  Lot  &  Company  had 
tried  to  take  the  boy.  Had  they  not  failed,  the 
man  would  never  have  come,  but  something  craven 
[298] 


LOT   &    COMPANY:    n 


in  the  place  of  the  boy,  something  tied  to  its  own 
death,  its  soul  shielded  from  the  light — a  shield 
of  coin-metals. 

He  shuddered,  less  at  the  narrowness  of  his  own 
escape,  than  at  New  York  whose  business  came  up 
to  him  now  through  the  open  windows.  .  .  .  The 
shaving  had  dragged.  He  was  not  accustomed  to 
study  his  own  face.  The  very  novelty  of  it  had 
held  him  this  time — and  especially  the  thought  of 
what  she  might  have  seen  there.  Suddenly  he 
wanted  something  big  to  take  back  to  her — a  man 
hood  of  mind  and  an  integrity  of  soul — something 
to  match  that  superb  freedom  she  had  wrung  from 
the  world.  A  thousand  times  the  different  parts 
of  her  story  had  returned  to  his  mind,  always  fill 
ing  him  with  awe  and  wonder.  She  had  come  like 
one  with  a  task,  and  set  about  it  from  a  child, 
against  all  odds,  putting  all  laws  of  men  beneath 
— as  if  the  task  had  been  arranged  before  she 
came.  He  knew  that  the  essence  of  this  freedom 
was  in  the  hearts  of  women  everywhere,  but  she 
had  made  it  manifest,  dared  all  suffering  for  it. 
And  yet  with  all  the  struggle  behind  her,  the  gen 
tleness  which  he  had  come  to  know  in  her  nature 
was  one  of  the  great  revelations.  It  gave  him  a 
vision  of  the  potential  beauty  of  humanity;  it 
made  him  understand  that  one  must  be  powerful 
before  one  can  be  gentle;  that  one  must  master 
one's  self  before  one  dare  be  free.  All  that  he 
had  was  far  too  little  to  bring  home  to  her.  This 

[299] 


LOT      &     COMPANY 

morning  he  felt  that  nothing  short  of  the  im 
possible  was  worth  going  after. 

A  little  later  as  he  was  leaving  the  room,  the 
telephone  rang.  The  operator  said  that  a  gentle 
man  wanted  to  see  him.  On  the  lower  floor,  Bel- 
lair  glanced  into  the  eyes  of  a  young  man  who 
wanted  something;  "glanced  into"  is  somewhat 
inaccurate;  rather  his  eyes  glanced  from  the 
other's,  and  took  away  a  peculiar,  indescribable 
interest.  It  was  the  look  of  a  colt  he  had  seen, 
a  glitter  of  wildness  and  irresponsibility  in  a  face 
that  was  handsome  but  not  at  its  best. 

Bellair  had  seen  something  of  the  expression  in 
the  faces  of  young  men  who  had  been  fathered  too 
much ;  those  who  had  not  met  the  masterful  influ 
ence  of  denial,  and  had  been  allowed  to  lean  too 
long.  The  face  had  everything  to  charm  and  to 
express  beauty  and  reality  with,  but  the  inner 
lines  of  it  were  not  formed;  the  judgments  lack 
ing,  the  personal  needs  too  imperious.  He  had 
made  the  most  of  well-worn  clothing,  but  appeared 
to  feel  keenly  the  poorness  of  it. 

"I  came  in  here  yesterday,"  he  said  hastily.  "It 
all  happened  because  the  ledger  was  turned  back. 
I  glanced  at  it,  as  one  will,  and  standing  out  from 
the  page  was  'Auckland,  N.  Z.'  It  was  as  if  writ 
ten  in  different  colour  to  me.  I  followed  the  line 
back  to  the  name — and  tried  to  see  you  yesterday 
afternoon  and  last  night.  You  didn't  come 
in—" 

[300] 


LOT   &    COMPANY:    n 


"You  come  from  Auckland?"  Bellair  asked. 


"How  long?' 

"It's  more  than  a  year.  .  .  .  Small  thing  to 
meet  a  stranger  on,  but  it  was  all  I  had.  Auck 
land  is  so  far  and  so  different  —  that  when  I  saw  it 
—  it  seemed  there  must  be  a  chance  -  " 

"Of  course.  I  know  how  it  is,"  said  Bellair. 
"Do  you  want  to  get  back1?" 

"That  isn't  it,  exactly,  though  I  haven't  any 
thing  here  -  " 

"Have  you  had  breakfast?" 

"N-no." 

"Come  in  with  me  and  we'll  talk.  I  have  a 
half-hour  to  spare." 

Bellair  heard  his  voice  and  wondered  at  the 
coldness  of  it.  He  remembered  afterward  the 
covered  billiard-tables  at  the  far  end  of  the  hall 
and  the  dimness  of  the  hall's  length,  as  he  led 
the  way.  His  own  custom  was  a  pot  of  coffee 
and  a  bit  of  toast,  but  the  other's  possible  need 
of  food  had  a  singular  authority  over  him,  so 
he  made  out  that  this  was  one  of  the  main  feeding 
features  of  his  day.  .  .  .  But  the  other  was  intent 
upon  certain  things  beside  food.  He  had  been  un 
lucky.  Everything  that  he  had  tried  in  the  year 
of  New  York  had  failed  him  somehow  —  little  ven 
tures,  positions  lost  —  and  always  some  one  was  to 
blame,  not  this  one  who  spoke  and  had  suffered  so. 
Bellair  hearkened  for  one  note  that  would  confine 

[301] 


LOT      &      COMPANY 


itself  to  the  unfinished  mouth  and  the  unstable 
character;  one  note  that  would  suggest  the  possi 
bility  of  a  clue  that  the  series  of  failures  lay  in 
his  own  shortcomings  of  strength  and  quality,  but 
the  boy  had  not  this  suggestion  in  his  heart. 

"Are  you  married?"  Bellair  asked. 

"No." 

There  was  an  instant's  lull,  and  then  was  turned 
off  another  story  of  misfortune : 

"...  I  didn't  want  to  marry  her.  I  got  her  in 
trouble  down  in  New  Zealand.  Her  father  wanted 
me  to  marry  her — was  willing  to  pay  for  it — but 
a  fellow  can't  take  a  chance  like  that.  We  came 
up  together  with  the  kid  to  New  York,  but  every 
thing  broke  bad  for  me " 

The  voice  went  on,  but  Bellair  lost  his  face. 
There  was  a  greenish-yellow  light  between  their 
faces,  at  least,  for  Bellair's  eyes,  and  the  floor 
seemed  shaken  with  heavy  machinery.  Bellair 
knew  the  burn  of  hate,  and  the  thirst  to  kill — and 
then  he  was  all  uncentred,  like  a  man  badly 
wounded.  He  arose. 

"...  The  fact  is,  I  don't  think  she  was  quite 
right.  None  of  them  are " 

"I  won't  be  able  to  hear  any  more  of  that  just 
now,"  Bellair  said  slowly.  "I'm  leaving  this  hotel 
to-day  for  other  quarters.  But  to-morrow  morning 
at  ten,  I  shall  be  here  and  listen  to  what  you  want. 
Perhaps  I  can  set  you  straight  a  bit — for  the  pres- 
[302] 


LOT    &    COMPANY:    n 


ent,  anyway.  And  this — is  so  you  won't  miss  any 
meals  in  the  meantime " 

Bellair  handed  him  money. 

"Please  excuse  me,"  he  added.  "And  finish 
your  breakfast " 

He  called  the  waiter  and  signed  the  card.  Then 
he  turned  as  if  to  look  around  the  room.  He 
located  the  door  by  which  they  had  entered,  drew 
his  hands  strangely  across  his  eyes.  Effusive  grate 
fulness  was  seeking  his  ears  from  the  young  man 
in  the  chair.  Bellair  lifted  his  hand  as  if  to  cut 
off  the  voice,  and  then  started  for  the  door,  his 
step  hastening. 

8 

It  was  truly  a  tenement  quarter  in  which  Davy 
and  his  mother  lived.  The  fact  awed  Bellair 
somewhat.  Had  he  been  a  cripple  in  a  wheeled- 
chair,  confined  to  one  side  of  one  block,  he  could 
have  found  a  life's  work.  .  .  .  Little  faces  that 
choked  him  everywhere.  One  might  toss  coins  at 
their  feet,  but  the  futility  of  that  was  like  a  cry 
to  God. 

Davy's  mother  was  making  his  room  ready.  By 
some  chance  it  faced  the  east;  between  ten  and 
noon,  there  was  sunlight.  Forty  years  ago  it  had 
been  the  kitchen  of  a  second-floor  apartment, 
doubtless  respectable.  Only  the  scars  of  the 
kitchen  fixtures  remained,  like  organs  gone  back 

[303] 


LOT     &      COMPANY 


to  a  rudiment  in  swift  involution.  Water  now 
was  to  be  had  in  but  one  place  on  each  floor — in 
the  hall,  and  the  natives  came  there  with  their 
pitchers  and  cans  as  tropical  villagers,  morning 
and  evening  to  the  well. 

Mrs.  Acton  had  spared  a  bit  of  carpet,  which 
looked  as  if  it  had  been  scrubbed;  and  just  below 
the  window  the  tip  of  a  heaven-tree  waved.  It 
was  thin  as  his  single  bed,  but  even  that  growth 
seemed  miraculously  attained,  as  if  the  seed  must 
have  held  all  the  nourishment.  Bellair  stared 
down  through  shadows  and  litter,  and  could  dis 
cern  no  more  than  a  crack  in  the  stone  pavement, 
from  which  this  leafy  creature  had  come  to  him. 
Quite  as  miraculously  it  was,  with  the  myriad  chil 
dren  in  the  streets  and  halls.  Certainly  this  was 
a  place  to  keep  tender.  Davy  had  gone  forth  on 
an  errand. 

"What  was  he  interested  in  especially  when  he 
was  little?"  Bellair  asked. 

"Boats — boats,"  said  the  mother. 

It  struck  the  man  queerly  that  he  had  not  noted 
this.  Davy  had  devoured  his  little  list  of  sea 
stories,  and  had  listened  as  no  one  else  to  the  open 
boat  narrative,  but  the  man  fancied  it  just  the 
love  of  adventure.  Bellair's  mother  might  have 
said  the  same  thing. 

"Did  he  draw  them,  you  mean?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  and  played  with  them.  His  father  was 
a  seaman,  Mr.  Bellair." 

[304] 


LOT   &    COMPANY:    n 

Bellair's  father  had  not  been  a  seaman,  but  there 
was  little  to  that.  They  were  one  in  the  initial 
proclivity.  Perhaps  if  the  truth  were  shaken 
down,  there  was  something  in  this  fact  that  had 
to  do  with  their  relation. 

"Could  I  have  breakfast  and  supper  here  with 
you?"  he  asked  suddenly. 

The  woman  looked  startled.  ".You  see,  I  am 
away  three  days  a  week." 

It  was  Bellair's  idea  to  make  this  impossible, 
so  he  insisted: 

"My  wants  are  simple.  I  might  not  be  here 
always  to  supper — but,  of  course,  I  should  want  to 
pay  for  it.  It  would  be  pleasant — we  three  to 
gether — and  no  matter  to  me  if  supper  were  a  bit 
late.  You  see,  Mrs.  Acton,  now  that  I've  begun, 
I  insist  on  having  a  home.  I  lived  in  one  room 
for  five  years,  and  that  sort  of  thing  is  ended.  A 
hotel  is  no  better." 

Davy  returned  and  Bellair  took  him  forth  at 
once,  impatient  to  continue  the  adventure  of  the 
purchases,  begun  the  night  before.  Hours  passed. 
Once  Davy  looked  up  to  him  in  a  mixture  of  awe 
and  joy: 

"Why  are  you  buying  so  many  things  for  us, 
Mr.  Bellair?" 

"Sit  down,"  the  man  answered. 

They  were  in  a  retail  clothier's.  The  salesman 
drew  back. 

"Davy,"  said  Bellair,   "it's  the  most  natural 

[305] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 


thing.  First  I  have  the  money  and  you  have  the 
needs.  Second,  we  are  friends " 

Bellair  had  felt  many  things  hammering  for 
utterance,  but  when  he  had  come  thus  far,  he 
found  that  the  whole  ground  was  covered.  .  .  . 
The  boy  hurried  home,  but  Bellair  was  not  ready. 
With  all  his  affection  for  the  lad,  he  wanted  to  be 
alone.  He  had  held  himself  to  Davy's  needs  for 
hours;  but  through  it  all,  the  sentences — so  brief 
and  thoughtless  across  the  breakfast  table — re 
curred  smitingly.  They  hurt  everything  in  him 
and  in  an  incredible  fashion.  He  marvelled  that 
he  had  been  able  to  reply  quietly.  His  face  burned 
now,  and  he  thought  of  the  Faraway  Woman — 
how  gentle  she  had  been,  blaming  nothing,  hold 
ing  no  sense  of  being  wronged.  It  was  that  which 
helped  him  now,  though  his  heart  was  hot  and 
aching.  .  .  .  One  must  have  compassion  for  the 
world — one  whose  home  is  the  house  of  such  a 
-woman. 

"It  must  not  hurt  the  Gleam,"  he  said  half- 
aloud.  This  was  the  burden  of  all  his  effort. 
"The  Gleam  is  hers.  I  must  not  let  the  thought 
of  this  touch  the  Gleam — not  even  in  my 
mind." 

The  young  man  was  stranded  in  New  York. 
They  met  as  arranged  the  next  morning. 
Many  difficulties  were  related,  and  the  perversities 
of  outside  influences  and  the  actions  of  others. 
The  great  regret  was  that  at  a  certain  time  when 
[306] 


LOT   &    COMPANY:    n 

he  had  the  money  more  than  a  year  ago,  the  young 
man  had  delayed  for  a  day  to  purchase  a  certain 
little  tobacconist's  shop  on  Seventh  avenue.  A 
friend  of  his  had  advised  him  against  it,  and 
plucked  the  fruit  himself.  This  gave  Bellair  an 
idea. 

In  the  next  ten  days,  everything  seemed  waiting 
for  the  manager  of  the  Follies  to  decide  the  case 
of  Bessie  Break.  Davy  was  permitted  to  look 
for  a  new  job,  but  Bellair  made  light  of  his  un- 
success.  .  .  .  He  did  not  look  up  Broadwell 
again,  understanding  clearly  that  the  advertising- 
man  would  endanger  his  position  in  calling  on 
him.  Bellair  was  not  ready  to  be  responsible  for 
such  a  loss  to  Broadwell.  Employes  of  Lot  & 
Company  did  not  change  easily.  .  .  .  He  was 
frequently,  but  never  long  with  Bessie  during 
these  days.  There  were  moments  of  disturbing 
sweetness,  and  moments  that  he  struggled  quickly 
to  forget,  as  Nature  sets  about  hastily  to  cover 
unseemly  matters  upon  the  ground. 

Now  that  the  great  event  of  her  life  had  come, 
Bessie  required  much  sleep,  and  cared  for  her 
beauty  as  never  before.  She  already  lived,  for  the 
most  part,  in  the  actual  substance  of  victory,  as 
only  the  young  dare  to  do ;  yet  she  lost  none  of  her 
zeal  in  preparation.  .  .  .  Bellair  held  to  the  orig 
inal  idea,  though  the  means  was  not  yet  articulate. 
He  was  sensitive  enough  to  realise  that  a  man  may 
be  impertinent,  even  when  trying  to  help  another. 

[307J 


LOT     &     COMPANY 

The  tremendous  discovery  in  this  interval  was 
that  the  open  boat  events  which  had  proved  so  salu 
tary  and  constructive  in  his  own  case,  did  not  ap 
pear  to  have  a  comparable  effect  upon  others  when 
he  related  them.  He  began  to  believe  that  he  had 
not  authority,  and  that  he  must  somehow  try  to 
gain  authority  by  making  good  with  men.  He  had 
his  story  to  tell.  He  had  seen  the  spirit  and  the 
flesh — beast  and  saint — watched  them  die.  All 
life  and  hope  and  meaning  were  caught  and  held, 
as  he  saw  it,  between  the  manner  of  the  deaths  of 
two  men.  This  experience  had  changed  him — if 
not  for  the  better — then  he  was  insane. 

It  was  hard  for  him  to  grasp,  that  the  thing 
which  had  changed  him  could  not  change  others — 
even  Bessie.  Yet  those  who  listened,  except  Davy 
and  his  mother,  appeared  to  think  that  he  was 
making  much  of  an  adventure  for  personal  rea 
sons.  He  tried  to  write  his  story,  but  felt  the  bones 
of  his  skull  as  never  before.  He  began,  "I  am  a 
simple  man,"  but  deep  guile  might  be  construed  to 
that.  ...  "I  want  nothing,"  he  wrote,  "but  to 
make  you  see  the  half  that  I  saw  in  the  open 
boat,"  and  he  heard  the  world  replying  in  his  con 
sciousness,  "The  open  boat  is  on  this  man  Bel- 
lair's  nerves.  It's  his  mania.  The  sun  or  the 
thirst  did  touch  him  a  bit."  .  .  . 

He  became  afraid  to  talk  much  even  with  Bes 
sie,  and  New  York  boomed  by,  leaving  him  out 
— out.  ...  He  tried  to  lift  the  signs  of  misery 

[308] 


LOT   &    COMPANY:    n 


on  the  way  to  the  home  of  Davy's  mother,  and  in 
the  surrounding  halls,  but  the  extent  and  terror  of 
it  dismayed  him ;  and  remarkably  enough,  always 
this  same  answer  came:  that  he  must  get  himself 
and  the  South  Sea  business  in  hand  before  a  true 
beginning  could  be  made  here 

It  wasn't  on  Seventh  avenue  that  he  found  a 
cigar  store  to  suit  his  purpose  in  this  interval,  but 
the  promise  was  certainly  as  good  as  the  old  one. 
He  put  the  New  Zealand  young  man  in  charge,  on 
a  basis  designed  to  challenge  any  one's  quality; 
and  having  done  this  in  a  businesslike  fashion, 
Bellair  made  haste  to  escape.  The  sense  was  cool 
and  abiding  in  his  mind  that  in  this  case,  as  in 
Lot  &  Company's,  the  circle  was  complete.  Still 
he  retained  the  suspicion  that  the  young  man  did 
not  believe  him  sane. 

He  followed  the  singer  when  she  permitted,  to 
dressmakers,  rehearsals,  quartette  performances 
and  meals;  found  other  men  following  singers 
similarly,  in  all  their  byways  of  routine;  he  dis 
liked  them,  disliked  himself. 

He  had  not  told  her  of  his  fortune,  because  he 
knew  in  his  heart  it  would  change  everything.  He 
helped  in  many  small  ways,  and  allowed  her  to 
believe  what  she  chose.  She  had  never  identified 
him  with  large  things,  did  not  think  the  present 
arrangement  could  last,  and  made  as  much  as  pos 
sible  of  the  convenience.  They  were  together  on 
the  night  before  her  try-out,  though  as  usual  it 
[309] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 


was  but  a  matter  of  moments.  Bellair  used  most 
of  them  in  silence.  The  tension  of  hurry  always 
stopped  his  throat.  He  longed  for  one  full  day 
with  her,  a  ramble  without  the  clock;  yet  what 
would  he  do  with  it — he,  who  dared  not  go  to  the 
waterfront  alone — to  whom  the  night  whistling 
of  steamers  in  the  harbour  was  like  the  call  of  the 
child  of  his  heart? 

"You  are  at  your  best,"  he  said.  "Your  voice 
was  never  sweeter  than  to-night.  You  must  go 
now  and  sleep.  To-morrow,  of  course,  you  will 
win,  and  when  may  I  come*?" 

Her  face  clouded.  Perhaps  because  he  said  the 
opposite,  the  thought  of  possible  defeat  came  now 
with  a  clearness  which  had  not  before  appealed  to 
her  unpracticed  imagination. 

"You  may  come  to  my  room  at  twelve — no,  at 
one.  I  shall  go  there  at  once  after  the  trial — and 
you  shall  be  first." 

It  pleased  him,  and  since  she  did  not  seem  in 
clined  to  leave  just  then,  Bellair  found  himself 
talking  of  the  future.  Perhaps  he  did  not  entirely 
cover  his  zeal  to  change  a  little  her  full-hearted 
giving  of  self  to  the  foam.  Bessie  bore  it.  He 
had  not  spoken  of  the  open  boat,  but  something  he 
said  was  related  to  it  in  her  mind. 

"To-morrow  will  settle  everything,"  she  de 
clared.  .  .  .  "And  I  don't  like  that  other  woman 
on  the  ship.  She  isn't  human.  You  think  it 
amazing  because  she  didn't  cry  and  scream.  That 

[310] 


LOT    &    COMPANY:    n 

isn't  everything.  .  .  .  She'd  be  lost  and  unheard 
of  here  in  New  York." 

"Yes,  that  is  probably  true." 

"It's  all  right  for  people  who  don't  write  or 
paint  or  sing — to  talk  about  real  life  and  what's 
right  work  in  the  world,  but  artists  see  it  differ 
ently.  Anyway,  it's  the  only  job  we've  got." 

Bellair  never  forgot  that,  or  rather  what  she 
had  meant  to  say. 

"Singing  is  what  drew  me  to  you,  Bessie.  What 
I  object  to  is  what  the  world  tries  to  do  with  its 
singers,  and  that  so  many  singers  fall  for  it." 

"The  world  lets  you  more  or  less  alone — until 
you  make  good.  Plenty  of  time  after  that  to 
answer  back." 

She  yawned.  It  was  as  near  reality  as  they  had 
gotten,  and  Bellair,  who  asked  so  little,  had  a 
glimpse  again  of  the  loveliness  he  had  first  taken 
to  sea — even  to  the  kiss  at  the  last.  She  also 
granted  him  this: 

"You've  been  good  to  me.  I  couldn't  have 
done  without  you " 

He  lay  awake  long.  The  house  in  which  he 
lived  was  very  silent,  and  it  pressed  so  close  to  the 
sea. 

9 

She  was  only  partly  dressed  when  he  came 
early  the  next  afternoon,  but  was  not  long  in  let 
ting  him  in.  Before  any  words,  he  knew  that  she 

[311] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 


had  won.  A  man  often  has  to  readjust  hastily 
after  the  night  before.  It  was  so  with  Bellair 
now.  Her  eyes  were  bright  with  emotions,  but  a 
certain  hardness  was  shining  there.  It  was  an 
effort  for  her  to  think  of  him  and  be  kind.  He 
would  have  seen  it  all  in  another's  story. 

His  glance  kept  turning  to  her  bare  arm,  upon 
which  a  hideous  vaccination-scar  was  revealed. 
They  had  not  thought  of  her  singing  in  those  days. 
.  .  .  She  had  never  spoken  of  her  house  or  her 
people.  It  was  enough  that  those  days  were  fin 
ished.  Bellair  could  understand  that.  Her  vic 
tory  was  all  through  her  now,  satisfying,  com 
pleting  her.  She  did  not  love  money  for  its  own 
sake  or  she  would  have  treated  him  differently. 
All  her  surplus  energy,  even  her  passion,  was 
turned  to  this  open  passage  of  her  career.  Having 
that,  previous  props  could  be  kicked  away;  at 
least,  Bellair  felt  this. 

"Yes,  it's  all  done.  A  month  of  solid  rehearsal 
— then  the  road.  I  take  the  second  part,  but  I 
hope  to  come  back  in  the  first " 

"You  were  at  your  best  at  the  trial1?" 

"After  the  first  moment  or  two.  .  .  .  And  no 
more  Brandt's  or  Castle — no  more  with  the  other 
three — God,  how  sick  I  am  of  them — and  of  this 
room !" 

"Will  you  lunch  with  me?" 

"Yes — I  have  .until  three." 

It  was  shortly  after  one.  She  talked  with  ani- 
[312] 


LOT   &    COMPANY:    n 


mation  about  her  work,  her  eyes  held  to  a  glisten 
ing  future.  She  finished  her  dressing  leisurely, 
with  loving  touches,  abandoning  herself  com 
pletely  to  the  mirror  as  an  old  actress  might,  hav 
ing  conceded  the  essential  importance  of  attrac 
tions.  She  studied  her  face  and  figure  as  if  she 
were  the  maid  to  them.  Bessie  dressed  for  the 
world,  not  for  herself,  certainly  not  for  Bellair. 
Without,  in  the  world — streets,  restaurants,  thea 
tres — there  existed  an  abstraction  which  must  be 
satisfied.  She  had  not  yet  entered  upon  that  peril 
ous  adventure  of  dressing  for  the  eyes  of  one  man. 
She  did  not  think  of  Bellair  as  she  lifted  her  arms 
to  her  hair.  On  no  other  morning  could  she  have 
been  so  far  from  the  sense  of  him  in  her  room. 
Empires  have  fallen  because  a  woman  has  lifted 
her  naked  arms  to  her  hair  with  a  man  in  the  room. 

An  older  woman  would  have  rewarded  him  for 
being  there;  an  older  woman  never  would  have 
put  on  her  hat  for  the  street  without  remembering 
her  humanity.  There  was  something  in  Bessie 
that  reserved  the  kiss  for  the  last.  Possibly  after 
the  last  song  of  the  day,  a  kiss  remained.  She 
put  on  the  flowers  he  brought;  even  that  did  not 
remind  her,  nor  the  dress  he  had  bought  for  her — 
asking  him  if  he  approved,  not  that  she  cared,  but 
because  she  was  turning  before  the  glass  with  the 
thing  upon  her  body  and  mind.  She  would  have 
asked  a  child  the  same. 

They  went  to  Beathe's  for  luncheon,  which  was 

[313] 


LOT      &      COMPANY 


also  Bessie's  breakfast.  There,  it  may  have  been 
that  she  was  ready  to  forget  herself,  knowing  it 
would  keep  for  a  little.  In  any  event,  she  seemed 
to  see  Bellair  as  he  ordered  for  her,  as  if  recalling 
that  he  had  made  many  things  move  easily  of 
late,  and  that  it  was  pleasant  to  have  these  mat 
ters,  even  luncheons,  conducted  by  another. 
Thinking  of  him,  the  voyage  was  instantly  asso 
ciated  : 

"I  said  last  night  that  I  didn't  like  that 
woman,"  she  began.  "I  didn't  mean  just  that,  of 
course.  But  a  woman  can  see  another  woman  bet 
ter  than  a  man.  There  are  women  who  keep  their 
mouths  shut  and  get  great  reputations  for  being 
wise  and  all  that.  They  never  associate  with 
women.  You'll  always  find  them  with  men,  play 
ing  sister  and  helping  and  saying  little.  Men  get 
to  think  they're  the  whole  thing " 

"I  suppose  there  are,"  said  Bellair. 

He  wished  she  had  not  picked  up  this  particular 
point  again;  and  yet  a  certain  novelty  about  this 
impressed  him  now,  and  recurred  many  times 
afterward — that  it  was  she  who  had  broached 
the  subject. 

"Do  you  think  a  man  knows  men  better  than  a 
woman  does?"  he  asked. 

Bessie  had  not  thought  of  it;  she  was  not  sure. 

Nor  was  Bellair.  "The  fact  is,  it  doesn't 
greatly  matter  what  women  think  of  women,  and 
what  men  think  of  men — compared  to  what  men 
[314] 


LOT   &    COMPANY:    n 


and  women  think  of  each  other,"  he  observed. 

"You  say  you  didn't  know  that  other  man  at 
first — that  preacher,"  she  remarked. 

"That's  true.  There  had  to  be  danger — I  had 
to  hear  his  voice  in  danger." 

Bellair  was  lifted  to  his  life-theme.  He  had 
never  really  told  it  in  one  piece.  He  did  not  mean 
to  now,  but  Fleury  came  clearly  to  mind.  The 
food  was  served  and  it  was  quiet  behind  the  palms. 
If  he  could  only  say  something  for  her  heart. 
She  seemed  ready.  Points  of  human  interest  were 
crowding  to  mind — perhaps  he  could  hold  her 
with  them. 

".  .  .  His  every  thought  was  for  others,"  he 
was  saying.  "I  disliked  him  at  first,  but  he  was  so 
kind  and  good-natured  throughout  that  he  could 
not  fail  to  impress  me  a  bit,-  but  I  didn't  really  see 
him  before  the  night  of  the  wreck,  when  he  arose  to 
take  things  in  hand.  It  was  not  noise,  nor  voice, 
but  a  different  force.  He  seemed  to  rise — so  that 
the  huge  Stackhouse  was  just  a  squealing  pig  be 
fore  him.  He  had  no  fear.  You  looked  into  his 
face  and  wanted  to  be  near  him,  and  to  do  what 
he  said.  I  caught  his  secret.  A  fool  would.  It 
was  because  he  wasn't  thinking  of  himself.  It 
seems,  Bessie,  as  sure  as  you  live — that  the  more 
a  man  gives  out  in  that  pure  way  Fleury  did  for 
us  all — the  more  power  floods  into  him.  It  came 
to  him  in  volumes.  We  all  knew  it — even  Stack- 
house 

[315] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 


"And  this  is  what  I'm  getting  at.  You've  got 
the  chance  to  use  it.  I  can't  yet.  I  seem  to  be 
all  clotted  with  what  I  want,  but  you  can !  You 
did.  You  pulled  me  out  of  the  crowd,  not  know 
ing  me  at  all — made  me  come  to  you — changed 
me.  You  can  give  with  your  singing — to  hun 
dreds — so  that  they  will  answer  in  their  thoughts, 
and  do  things  strange  to  themselves  at  first. 
They'll  want  to  die  for  you — but  that  isn't  the 
thing  for  you.  You  must  want  to  sing  for  them — 
want  to  give  them  your  soul  all  the  time.  Greater 
things  will  come  to  you  than  this — this  which 
makes  you  happy.  All  that  the  world  could  give 
you — you  will  come  to  see — doesn't  matter — but 
what  you  can  give  the  world " 

He  saw  her  falling  away  from  his  story.  It. 
crippled  him.  He  did  not  think  he  could  fail  so 
utterly. 

"But  you  were  a  thief,"  she  said. 

"I— was  what?" 

"You  preach  all  the  time,  but  you  were  a 
thief " 

He  had  heard  aright.  His  hand  reached  for 
the  wallet,  that  contained  the  letter  from  Lot  & 
Company,  but  fell  from  it  again. 

"If  you  like,"  he  answered,  "but  I  saw  a  beast 
die  in  the  open  boat — and  saw  a  saint  die " 

"You  preach — preach — preach !"  she  cried,  and 
her  own  points  of  view  returned  with  greater  in 
tensity.  "You've  been  kind — but,  oh,  you  bore 
[316] 


LOT   &    COMPANY:    n 

me  so !  You  have  been  kind — but  oh,  don't  think 
you  fail  to  make  one  pay  the  price!  You  were 
sunstruck,  or  crazed — and  you  come  back  preach 
ing.  I'm  sick  of  you — just  in  my  highest  day, 
after  the  months  of  struggle — I  hate  you " 

Bellair  heard  a  ship's  bell.  It  was  dark  about 
him — a  cool,  serene  dark.  The  air  fanned  him 
softly  and  sweet;  the  place  rocked — just  for  an 
instant,  as  if  he  were  at  sea. 

"I  hate  you  when  you  preach,"  she  finished. 
Her  voice  was  softer.  He  knew  she  was  smiling, 
but  did  not  look  at  her  face.  She  had  delivered 
him.  He  was  calm,  and  ineffably  free,  the  circle 
finished. 

"Ok,  that  we  two  were  Maying "  he  mut 
tered,  his  thoughts  far  down  the  seas — remote  and 
insular,  serene  and  homing  thoughts. 

"It  takes  two  to  sing  that,"  she  said. 

"Yes." 

"But,  I'm  so  sick  of  that " 

"You  must  have  sung  it  many  times,"  he  said. 

He  did  not  want  to  linger.  A  certain  hush  had 
come  to  her  from  him.  It  was  not  yet  three.  .  .  . 
He  seemed  surprised  to  find  it  broad  day  in  the 
street.  She  touched  his  sleeve,  drawing  him  to  the 
curb,  away  from  the  crowds  which  astonished  him. 
Clearly  something  was  wrong  with  his  head. 

"Bessie — before  your  salary  begins — have  you 
everything?  Isn't  there  something *?" 

She  smiled  and  hesitated.  He  rubbed  his  eyes. 
[317] 


LOT     &      COMPANY 


"I'm  so  glad  I  thought  of  it,"  he  said,  drawing 
forth  the  brown  wallet. 

His  gift  bewildered  her,  but  she  did  not  ask 
him  this  time  what  he  wanted.  Instead  she  asked : 

"But  where  are  you  going1?" 

"Why,  Bessie,  I'm  going  home." 


[318] 


PART  SEVEN :  THE  STONE  HOUSE :  II 


PART   SEVEN 
THE    STONE    HOUSE:     II 


1 


"^  HE  hard  thing  was  to  get  Honolulu  be 
hind.  The  first  seven  days  at  sea  was 
like  a  voyage  to  another  planet.  Bel- 
lair  could  lose  himself  in  the  universe, 
between  the  banging  of  the  Chinese  gongs  that 
called  passengers  willingly,  for  the  most  part,  to 
meals  on  the  British  ship  Suwarrow.  .  .  .  They 
had  crawled  out  of  the  harbour  in  the  dusk,  a 
southwest  wind  waiting  at  the  gate,  like  an  eager 
lover  for  a  maiden  to  steal  forth.  She  was  in  his 
arms  shamelessly,  before  the  dusk  closed,  the  voices 
from  the  land  hardly  yet  having  died  away.  Bel- 
lair  watched  their  meeting  in  the  offing.  The 
blusterer  came  head  on;  the  Suwarrow  veered  co- 
quettishly  and  started  to  run,  knowing  him  the 
swifter  and  the  stronger,  as  all  woman-things  love 
to  know.  Presently  he  had  her,  and  they  made  a 
[321] 


LOT     &      COMPANY 

night  of  it — the  moon  breaking  out  aghast  from 
time  to  time,  above  black  and  flying  garments  of 
cloud.  Bellair  enjoyed  the  game,  the  funnels 
smoking  the  upper  decks  straight  forward.  They 
were  making  a  passage  that  night,  in  the  south 
ward  lift  of  that  lover. 

He  had  found  a  little  leaf  of  cigars  in  a  German 
shop  in  Honolulu;  the  same  reminding  him  of 
Stackhouse.  They  were  Brills,  with  a  Trichino- 
poli  flavour,  a  wrapping  from  the  States,  the  main 
filler  doubtless  from  the  Island  plantations.  The 
German  had  talked  of  them  long,  playing  with 
the  clotty  little  fellows  in  his  hands,  for  they  were 
moist  enough,  not  easily  to  be  broken.  "You  sink 
your  teeth  in  one  of  these  after  a  good  dinner," 
he  said,  "and  if  you  do  not  enjoy  tobacco,  it  is 
because  you  have  been  smoking  other  plants. 
These  are  made  by  a  workman " 

Bellair  smoked  to  the  workman ;  also  he  smoked 
to  Stackhouse.  Something  kindly  had  come  over 
him  for  the  Animal.  Lot  &  Company  had  helped 
him  to  it.  ...  Yes,  he  thought,  the  animal  part 
is  right  enough.  It  is  only  when  the  human  adult 
consciousness  turns  predatory  that  the  earth  is  laid 
waste  and  the  stars  are  fogged.  .  .  .  These  were 
but  back-flips  of  Bellair's  mind.  In  the  main  he 
was  held  so  furiously  ahead,  that  body  and  brain 
ached  with  the  strain.  As  nearly  as  he  could  de 
scribe  from  the  sensation,  there  was  a  carbon-stick 
upstanding  between  his  diaphragm  and  his  throat. 

[322] 


THE      STONE      HOUSE.'      II 


Every  time  he  thought  of  Auckland,  it  turned 
hot. 

.  .  .  He  knew  better  where  to  begin  now.  The 
beginning  was  not  in  New  York.  The  wallet  was 
heavy  upon  him;  he  must  not  waste  it;  nor  allow 
it  to  waste  itself  through  bad  management.  Auck 
land  was  a  desirable  centre  for  the  Stackhouse 
operations.  He  could  travel  forth  from  one 
agency  to  another.  The  fundamental  ideas  of 
trade,  together  with  large  knowledge  of  how  trade 
should  not  be  conducted,  was  his  heritage  from 
Lot  &  Company.  He  would  begin  slowly  and 
sincerely  to  work  out  his  big  problems — holding 
the  fruits  loosely  in  his  hands ;  ready  to  give  them 
up  to  another,  if  that  other  should  appear;  con 
tenting  himself  only  with  the  simplest  things; 
preparing  always  to  be  poorer,  instead  of  richer. 
.  .  .  He  would  earn  the  right  to  be  poor.  The 
thought  warmed  him,  something  of  the  natural 
strength  of  youth  about  it. 

Standing  out  of  the  wind  with  an  expensive 
cigar,  a  superb  course-dinner  finished  less  than  an 
hour  back,  Bellair  smiled  at  the  ease  of  poverty, 
welcoming  all  the  details  of  clean,  austere  denial. 
Yet  he  was  not  so  far  from  it  as  would  appear. 
He  had  always  taken  these  matters  of  luxury  and 
satiety  with  tentative  grasp;  even  the  dinners  of 
Stackhouse  were  but  studies  of  life.  His  ideal  was 
closely  adjusted  to  the  Faraway  Woman's  in  these 
things.  One  of  the  dearest  of  her  sayings  had  to 
[323] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 


do  with  renting  the  two  front  rooms  of  the  stone 
cottage.  Yet  now  he  hoped  furiously  that  she 
had  not  yet  done  so. 

His  thoughts  turned  again  out  among  the 
Islands.  He  would  meet  the  agents  of  Stack- 
house.  They  would  be  bewildered  at  first;  they 
would  think  he  had  come  to  peer  and  bite.  He 
would  lift  and  help  and  pass  on — making  the  cir 
cles  again  and  again,  gaining  confidence,  not  say 
ing  much.  No,  the  thing  he  had  in  mind  had  little 
to  do  with  words.  .  .  .  What  a  masonry  among 
men — here  and  there  one  giving  his  best  secretly. 

No  words  about  it.  Bellair  halted  and  filled 
his  lungs  from  the  good  breeze.  This  thought  had 
repeated  itself  like  a  certain  bright  pattern  through 
all  the  weave  of  his  conception.  It  had  a  familiar 
look,  and  a  prod  that  startled  him  now.  The 
whole  meaning  of  it  rushed  home,  so  that  he 
laughed. 

He  had  reached  in  his  own  way,  the  exact  point 
that  Fleury  had  set  out  with.  He  was  determined 
to  act.  He  had  ceased  to  talk.  .  .  .  Just  then 
looking  up  from  his  laughing  reverie,  he  saw  a  star. 
It  was  ahead,  not  high,  very  brilliant  and  golden. 
It  had  only  escaped  a  moment  between  the  flying 
black  figures  of  the  night,  but  more  brilliant  for 
that.  It  was  vast  and  familiar — the  meaning  tried 
the  throat  and  struck  at  his  heart  with  strange 
suffering.  .  .  .  Yes,  the  Suwarro-w  was  lifting  the 
southern  stars.  There  could  be  no  doubt.  He  had 

[324] 


THE      STONE      HOUSE!     II 


looked  at  that  mighty  sun  too  often  from  the  open 
boat  to  mistake.  Fleury  had  said  if  it  were  as  near 
to  earth  as  our  sun,  this  little  planet  would  be 
dried  to  a  cinder  in  ten  seconds.  It  was  the  great 
golden  ball,  Canopus.  ...  A  hand  was  placed 
softly  in  his.  Bellair  was  startled.  He  had  been 
far  away,  yet  the  gladness  was  instant,  as  he 
turned  down  to  the  face  of  Davy  Acton. 

"She's  better,"  the  boy  said.  "I've  been  trying 
to  get  her  to  come  up  on  deck.  She  told  me  to  ask 
you,  if  you  thought  it  best." 

"Sure,  Davy — I'll  go  with  you  to  get  her." 


He  had  seen  very  little  of  Mrs.  Acton  dur 
ing  the  voyage.  Sailing  was  not  her  feat,  but 
the  lady  was  winsome  after  her  fast.  Bellair  had 
found  her  very  brave,  and  there  had  not  been  such 
an  opportunity  to  tell  her  so,  as  this  night.  He 
wanted  enough  light  to  see  her  face,  and  enough 
air  to  keep  her  above  any  qualm.  They  found  a 
cane-table,  on  the  lee-side,  toward  America,  the 
light  of  a  cabin  passage  upon  it.  Bellair  ordered 
an  innocuous  drink  for  Davy  and  himself,  and 
whispered  along  a  pint  of  champagne,  having 
heard  it  spoken  well  of  as  an  antidote  for  those 
emerging  from  the  sickness  of  the  sea. 

".  .  .  It's  a  little  charged,  cidery  sort  of  a 
drink — just  made  for  people  convalescent  from  the 
first  days  out  of  'Frisco,"  he  said. 
[325] 


LOT      &      COMPANY 


She  drank  with  serene  confidence,  and  leaned 
back  to  regard  the  glass  and  the  two. 

"It's  not  unlike  a  wine  I  drank  long  ago,"  she 
observed,  and  her  eyes  warmed  with  the  memory. 

"A  wine?"  he  said. 

"Just  so,  but  it's  no  crutch  for  the  poor,  I  should 
say,  by  the  way  it  comes " 

She  pointed  to  the  service-tub,  which,  unfor 
tunately,  was  of  silver. 

"They  like  to  keep  it  cold,"  Bellair  suggested. 

"It  would  need  ice  to  keep  that  cold,"  she  re 
plied. 

There  was  a  lyrical  lilt  to  her  words  that  he 
had  not  known  before;  in  fact  he  hadn't  quite 
known  Mrs.  Acton  before.  She  was  lifted  from 
the  stratum  of  the  submerged.  She  had  her  hands, 
her  health,  and  the  days  now  and  ahead  were  novel 
in  aspect.  A  little  seasickness  was  nothing  to  one 
who  had  met  the  City,  and  for  years  prevented  it 
from  taking  her  boy.  The  heart  for  adventure 
was  not  dead  within  her.  ...  In  fact,  Bellair, 
surveying  the  little  plump  white  creature  in  new 
black,  with  a  sparkle  in  her  eye,  her  hand  upon  the 
thin  stem  of  a  glass,  entered  upon  a  pleasant  pas 
sage. 

"You  see,  Mrs.  Acton — I've  been  struck  ever 
since  we  sailed  by  the  courage  you  showed  in  cross 
ing  the  world  like  this,  at  the  word  from  a 
stranger " 

"Stranger,"  she  repeated. 
[326] 


THE      STONE      HOUSE:     II 


"I  wanted  you  to  take  me  up  on  that,  but  the 
fact  is,  you  came  at  my  word." 

"  'Twas  not  much  I  had  to  leave — — -" 

"I  liked  it  better  than  the  hotel." 

"Do  you  know,  Mr.  Bellair,  I  never  gave  up 
the  hope  of  travel — a  bit  of  travel  before  I  passed? 
But  I  thought  it  would  be  alone  from  Davy — : — •" 
Her  eyes  glistened. 

Bellair  was  wondering  if  there  were  others  in 
that  tenement-house  who  had  kept  a  hope. 

"You  know,"  he  said,  "when  I  decided  to  ask 
you  to  come — because  I  was  far  from  finished  with 
our  lad — I  anticipated  that  it  would  be  somewhat 
of  a  struggle.  I  saw  how  hard  it  was  for  you  at 
first — the  night  we  told  you  about  his  loss  of  a 
place " 

"We  were  on  the  edge  so  long — the  least  bump 
ready  to  push  us  over,"  she  murmured. 

"I  made  a  little  arrangement  with  the  express 
company  to  furnish  you  with  a  return  ticket — 
you  and  Davy,  or  cheques  to  secure  them,  and 
enough  beside  to  get  you  back  to  New  York  at 
any  time " 

Her  eyes  widened.  She  turned  to  her  boy  to 
see  if  he  were  in  this  great  business.  Wonders  had 
not  ceased  for  him,  since  the  first  evening  at  the 
hotel.  Davy  was  intent  upon  her  now,  even  more 
than  upon  his  friend. 

"So  I  had  it  all  fixed  in  your  name.  There's  an 
agency  in  Auckland — one  in  every  city — so  you 
[327] 


LOT     &      COMPANY 


can't  go  broke.  And  no  one  can  cash  these  things 
but  you — after  you  call  and  register  your  signa 
ture.  You'll  find  enough  and  to  spare  for  your 
passage  (though  I  hope  you  won't  use  it  for  many 
a  year),  and  expenses  for  you  and  the  boy " 

There  were  tears  in  her  eyes.  Bellair  poured 
her  wineglass  full  in  the  excitement. 

"You  didn't  need  to  do  anything  like  that " 

"That's  a  point  I  am  particularly  proud  of," 
he  answered. 

"I'll  put  this  away  for  you,"  she  said,  taking 
the  proffered  envelope. 

The  face  of  dusty  wax-work  sped  past  his  inner 
eyes. 

"It's  all  one,"  she  added.  "It's  easy  for  me  to 
say  this,  having  nothing  but  what  you  give  me. 
Did  you  hear  of  the  house  where  every  one  put 
what  they  had  in  a  basket  hanging  from  the  ceil- 
ing?' 

"No,"  he  said. 

"  'Twas  mainly  empty.  The  poor  are  great 
hearted,  and  those  who  have  nothing.  .  .  .  This, 
I'll  put  in  no  basket,  but  the  bank,  and  you'll  have 
it  when  you  get  through  giving  away  the  rest.  I'll 
trust  in  the  Lord,  sure,  to  take  me  home " 

"I  haven't  been  very  successful  in  giving  away 
much,"  he  said.  "That's  our  problem  down  here 
among  the  Islands.  Davy  is  to  grow  up  and  help 
me.  You  are  to  help  us.  There  is  another  to  help 
us." 

[328] 


THE      STONE      HOUSE:     II 


Mrs.  Acton  finished  her  glass.  "Is  it  as  much 
as  that,  then6?" 

Davy  was  regarding  her  with  fine  pride  in  his 
eyes. 

Bellair  sent  him  to  the  cabin  for  a  book  that 
would  be  hard  to  find,  and  turned  to  the  boy's 
mother : 

"I've  got  something  to  say  to  you  about  Davy. 
I  brought  back  a  story  and  a  fortune  from  my 
other  trip  down  here.  The  story  was  more  im 
portant  by  a  whole  lot.  It  changed  everything 
for  me.  I  thought  I'd  only  have  to  tell  it,  to 
change  others.  That  didn't  work.  But  Davy 
listened,  and  he  wasn't  the  same  afterward. 

"I  didn't  understand  him  at  first.  I  used  to 
think  when  he  didn't  speak,  he  was  bored.  I  used 
to  think  I  had  to  entertain  him,  buy  him  with  gifts. 
But  I  was  wrong.  He  was  thinking  things  out  for 
himself  all  the  time.  He  was  puzzled  at  first  why 
any  one  cared  to  be  good  to  him  and  be  a  friend  to 
him — God,  what  a  price  the  world  must  pay  for 
making  boys  as  strange  to  kindness  as  that.  .  .  . 
But  this  is  what  I  want  to  say.  He  believed  in 
me  long  ago  in  Lot  &  Company's.  I  succeeded  in 
making  him  believe  in  me  again.  And  because  he 
believed  in  me,  he  believed  in  my  story,  and  when 
he  heard  that — he  wasn't  the  same  afterward. 

"I  tell  you,  boys  are  full  of  wonderful  things, 
but  the  world  has  shut  the  door  on  them.  All 
we've  got  to  do  is  to  be  patient  and  kind  and  keep 
[329] 


LOT      &      COMPANY 


the  door  open,  and  we'll  have  human  heroes  about 
us  presently,  instead  of  wolves  and  foxes  and  par 
rots  and  apes.  ...  I  learned  that  from  Davy 
Acton.  After  he  accepted  me,  he  got  my  story — 
and  that  showed  me  that  my  work  is  with  boys, 
and  that  first  I've  got  to  make  them  believe  in  me. 
I've  got  to  be  the  kind  of  a  man  to  win  that. 
We'll  all  pull  together — you  and  Davy  and  that 
other  and  I. 

"I'm  going  to  help  Davy,  and  I'm  going  to  help 
boys.  They're  not  set.  They  change.  They  are 
open  to  dreams  and  ready  for  action.  They  can 
forget  themselves  long  enough  to  listen.  The 
world  has  treated  them  badly ;  the  world  has  been 
a  stupid  fool  in  bringing  up  its  children.  Why, 
it's  half  luck  if  we  manage  to  amount  to  anything! 
I  think  I  know  now  how  to  do  better.  I'm  going 
to  try.  Why,  I'd  spend  five  years  and  all  I  have 
to  give  one  boy  his  big,  deep  chance  of  being  as 
human  as  God  intended.  I'll  help  boys  to  find 
their  work,  show  them  how  to  be  clean  and  fit  and 
strong.  I'll  show  them  that  getting  is  but  an  inci 
dent,  and  when  carried  too  far  becomes  the  crime 
and  the  hell  of  the  world.  .  .  .  He's  coming 
back — and  he's  found  the  book,  too.  I  must  use 
it " 

He  had  told  his  story  in  a  kind  of  gust,  and  the 
little  woman  had  listened  like  a  sensitive-plate,  her 
eyes  brimming,  her  son  moving  higher  and  higher 
in  a  future  that  was  safe  and  green  and  pure.  .  .  . 

[330] 


THE      STONE      HOUSE:      II 


It  had  come  out  at  last  for  Bellair.  He  was 
happy,  for  he  knew  that  this  which  had  been  born 
to-night,  with  the  help  of  the  mother's  listening, 
was  the  right  good  thing — the  thing  that  had 
come  home  from  hard  experience  to  the  heart  of  a 
simple  man. 

"Davy,"  he  said,  "I've  got  a  suspicion  that  your 
mother  could  eat  something.  Call  a  steward,  lad." 

She  started  and  fumbled  for  her  handkerchief. 

"Do  you  know — that  is — I  might  try  a  bite, 
Mr.  Bellair " 

The  man  was  smiling.  Davy  returned  and  sat 
down  wonderingly  between  them.  His  mother 
kept  her  mouth  covered,  but  her  eyes  were  wells 
of  joy. 

"I  don't  know  whether  it's  that  cider  that  needs 
keeping  so  cold,"  she  began  steadily,  "or  this 
which  Mr.  Bellair  has  been  saying,  but  the  truth 
is,  Davy,  I  haven't  been  so  happy  since  a  girl " 

"A  little  lunch  will  fix  that,"  Bellair  suggested 
absently. 

"If  it  will,"  she  returned,  "tell  the  man  that  it's 
nothing  I  wish  for,  this  night." 

3 

Auckland  passengers  were  not  to  be  landed 
until  the  morning,  but  the  Suwarrow  sent  one 
boat  ashore  that  night.  By  some  law  un 
known  to  the  outsider,  a  few  top  bags  of  mail 
were  discriminately  favoured,  and  they  were  in 

[331] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 

the  boat.  The  second  officer,  with  a  handful  of 
telegrams  to  be  filed;  a  travelling  salesman  called 
home  from  the  States  on  account  of  family  illness, 
also  Bellair  were  in  the  boat.  He  had  told  Davy 
and  his  mother  that  he  was  going  to  prepare  a 
place  for  them ;  that  he  would  be  back  on  the  deck 
of  the  Suwarrow  before  nine  in  the  morning.  Be 
cause  the  little  landing  party  was  out  of  routine, 
an  hour  or  more  was  required  for  Bellair  to  obtain 
release  to  the  streets.  It  was  now  midnight. 

Three  months  away,  and  there  had  been  no 
word  from  the  woman  who  had  remained.  In 
fact,  no  arrangement  for  writing  had  been  agreed 
upon,  except  in  case  New  York  should  hold  him. 
He  had  never  seen  the  writing  of  the  Faraway 
Woman.  .  .  .  He  believed  with  profound  convic 
tion  that  within  an  hour's  ride  by  trolley  from  the 
place  in  the  street  where  he  moved  so  hastily  now, 
there  was  a  bluff,  a  stone  cottage,  a  woman  wait 
ing  for  him,  and  a  child  near  her ;  that  all  was  well 
with  the  two  and  the  place.  Yet  he  lived  and 
moved  now  in  a  wearing,  driving  terror.  All  his 
large  and  little  moments  of  the  past  three  months 
passed  before  him  like  dancers  on  a  flash-lit  stage, 
some  beautiful,  some  false  and  ugly,  but  each  call 
ing  his  eyes,  something  of  his  own  upon  them. 

The  world  had  shown  him  well  that  man  is 
not  ready  for  joy  when  he  fears,  yet  Bellair  was 
afraid.  Man  deserves  that  which  he  complains  of. 
Still,  he  was  afraid.  He  was  exultant,  too. 

[332] 


THE     STONE      HOUSE!     II 


Cities  might  change  and  nations  and  laws, 
but  not  that  woman's  heart.  He  did  not  be 
lieve  she  could  love  him,  but  he  knew  of  her  fond 
ness  and  hoped  for  that  again.  She  was  in  a 
safe  place — as  any  place  in  the  world  is  safe.  She 
was  well,  with  a  health  he  had  never  known  in 
another,  and  the  child  was  flesh  of  her.  Yet  he 
feared,  his  heart  too  full  to  speak.  He  did  not  de 
serve  her,  but  he  hoped  for  the  miracle,  hoped  that 
the  driving  laws  of  the  human  heart  might  be  mer 
ciful,  hoped  for  her  fondness  again. 

He  would  stand  before  her  at  his  worst — all 
weakness  and  commonness  of  the  man,  Bellair, 
open  before  her.  Perhaps  she  would  see  his  love 
because  of  that,  but  he  would  not  be  able  to  tell 
her.  Never  could  he  ask  for  her.  If  it  were  made 
known,  it  would  not  be  through  words.  It  could 
only  come  from  him  in  a  kind  of  delirium.  He 
must  be  carried  away,  a  passion  must  take  him  out 
of  self.  Very  far  he  seemed  from  passion ;  rather 
this  was  like  a  child  in  his  heart,  with  gifts,  deep 
and  changeless,  but  inarticulate,  as  a  child  is.  It 
had  been  long  in  coming,  quietly  fulfilling  itself, 
and  this  was  the  rising. 

.  .  .  The  last  car  was  gone,  but  he  found  a  car 
riage — an  open  carriage,  a  slow  horse,  a  cool  and 
starry  night.  The  city  was  growing  silent,  the 
edges  darkened.  There  were  high  trees,  a  homing 
touch  about  them  after  the  sea,  and  a  glimpse  of 
the  harbour  to  the  left.  Bellair  had  not  even  a  bag 

[333] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 

with  him.  He  would  take  off  his  hat  for  a  way, 
and  then  put  it  on  again.  Sometimes  he  would 
let  his  ungloved  hand  hang  overside,  as  one  would 
do  in  a  small  boat.  There  was  a  leathery  smell 
from  the  seat  of  the  carriage,  with  a  bit  of  stable 
flavour,  that  would  get  into  a  man's  clothes  if  he 
stayed  long  enough.  It  was  dusty,  too,  something 
like  a  tight  room  full  of  old  leather-bound  books. 

The  horse  plumped  along,  a  little  lurch  forward 
at  every  fourth  beat.  Hunched  and  wrapped,  the 
driver  sat,  and  extraordinarily  still — a  man  used 
to  sitting,  who  gave  himself  utterly  to  it,  a  most 
spineless  and  sunken  manner.  Every  little  while 
he  coughed,  and  every  little  while  he  spat.  .  .  . 
Once  they  passed  a  motor-car — two  men  and  a 
girl  laughing  between  them;  then  the  interurban 
trolley  going  back — the  car  he  had  missed.  His 
heart  thumped.  It  was  the  same  car  that  he  had 
known,  the  same  tracks,  no  upheaval  of  the  earth 
here  so  far. 

Meanwhile,  Bellair  was  rounding  the  Horn  in 
the  Jade;  they  struck  rock  or  derelict,  were  lost 
for  ages  in  an  open  boat;  they  came  to  Auckland 
and  found  a  little  stone  house  on  the  bluff,  paused 
there.  .  .  . 

He  was  away  at  sea  again,  from  Auckland  to 
'Frisco,  across  the  States,  to  Brandt's,  to  Pastern' 'j, 
to  Lot  &  Company's  and  the  tenements,  to  the 
Castle  and  the  Landlady's  House ;  then  trains  and 
the  long  southern  sweep  of  the  Suwarrow,  down 

[334] 


THE      STONE      HOUSE!     II 


the  great  sea  again  to  this  .  .  .  plumping  along 
on  the  high,  rocky  shore.  The  brine  came  up  to 
him,  almost  as  from  the  open  boat.  His  eyes 
smarted,  his  throat  was  dry,  and  the  driver 
coughed. 

Bellair  had  paper  money  in  his  hand.  He 
meant  to  look  at  it  under  the  carriage-light,  when 
he  stepped  forth  near  the  Gate.  He  leaned  for 
ward  and  touched  the  great  coat. 

"Whoa"  said  the  man,  loud  enough  to  rouse 
the  seven  sleepers,  and  the  horse  came  up  with  a 
teeter. 

"Don't  stop,"  said  Bellair.  "It's  a  little  ahead 
yet.  I'll  tell  you  when  to  stop.  .  .  .  Yes,  let  him 
walk " 

Now,  Bellair  surveyed  what  he  had  said.  He 
was  like  that,  just  about  as  coherent  as  that.  The 
whoa  had  shaken  him  empty  for  the  most  part. 
.  .  .  He  would  not  know  what  to  say  to  her.  He 
would  sit  or  stand  like  a  fool  and  grin.  .  .  .  But 
she  was  great-hearted.  She  would  help  him.  .  .  . 
Awe  and  silence  crept  into  him  again. 

"Now,  pull  up " 

"Whoa"  was  the  answer,  shaking  the  trees. 

"There,  that  will  do,"  Bellair  said  tensely.  He 
stepped  out  and  passed  over  the  money,  forgetting 
to  look  at  it.  He  was  afraid  the  man  would  roar 
again. 

It  was  nearer  than  he  thought,  but  a  step  to  the 
Gate;  its  latch  lifted  softly  and  he  crossed  the 

[335] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 

gravel,  held  by  the  voice  of  the  rig  turning  behind. 
It  turned  slowly  as  a  ship  in  a  small  berth,  and 
the  voice  carried  like  the  cackle  of  geese.  .  .  . 
There  was  no  light.  He  was  on  the  step.  Some 
thing  sweet  was  growing  at  the  door.  .  .  .  Some 
thing  brushed  him  at  his  feet.  He  leaned  down 
in  the  darkness,  and  touched  the  tabby-puss, 
knocked  softly. 

"Yes "  came  from  within. 

"It  is  I,  Bellair " 

The  door  was  opened  to  absolute  blackness.  She 
was  not  in  his  arms.  Rather  he  was  in  her  arms. 
She  seemed  to  tower  above  him.  Around  was  the 
softness  and  fragrance  of  her  arms  and  her  breast. 
.  .  .  Not  the  cottage — her  arms  made  the  home  of 
man.  She  held  him  from  her,  left  him  standing 
bewildered  in  the  centre  of  the  room.  He  heard 
her  match,  and  her  voice  like  a  sigh,  trailing  to 
him  almost  like  a  spirit-thing: 

"Oh,— I— am— so— happy !" 

The  lamp  was  lit,  but  she  left  it  in  the  alcove, 
came  to  him  again,  a  shawl  about  her.  Lights 
were  playing  upon  his  shut  eyelids,  fulfilment  in 
his  arms  that  a  man  can  only  know  when  he  has 
crossed  the  world  to  a  woman,  not  a  maiden;  a 
plenitude  that  a  maiden  cannot  give. 

And  now  she  brought  the  light,  and  looked  into 
his  face — her  own  gleaming  behind  it,  full  of  rap 
ture,  the  face  of  a  love-woman,  some  inspired 
training  of  the  centuries  upon  it,  all  the  mystery 
[336] 


THE     STONE      HOUSE:     II 


and  delicacy  for  a  man's  eyes  that  he  can  endure 
and  live.  .  .  . 

"What  is  it?" 

He  could  only  look  at  her. 

"What  is  it?"  more  softly. 

As  if  the  thing  had  been  left  over  in  his  mind, 
and  required  clearing  away,  he  answered: 

"Are — are  the  rooms  rented?" 

She  laughed,  came  closer  than  the  light. 

"We  are  alone — only  the  child.  I  could  not 
let  any  one  come — the  rooms  seemed  yours.  .  .  . 
I  thought  you  would  come.  It  was  time  enough  to 
change  when  I  heard  from  you " 

"The  little  Gleam " 

"Yes,  he  is  here.  .  .  Oh,  did  you  know  what  it 
meant  to  us — when  you  went  away?" 

"I  knew  what  it  meant  to  me " 

"After  the  open  boat  and  the  days  together 
here — you  knew  all?" 

"Yes." 

"I  thought  it  would  be  easier.  .  .  .  And  you 
are  changed !  You  are  like  a  man  who  has  found 
his  Quest." 

She  was  about  him  like  magic.  They  were  mov 
ing  toward  the  little  room.  She  stopped  and  put 
the  lamp  back  in  the  alcove. 

"We  will  not  take  it  in  there.  It  would  wake 
him." 

...  It  was  dark  upon  the  threshold.  She  took 
his  hand.  He  heard  her  heart  beating,  or  was  it 
[337] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 


his  own?  .  .  .    They  heard  the  little  breathing. 
She  guided  his  hand  to  the  warm  little  hand. 

"Yes,  he  is  well,"  she  whispered.  "Everything 
is  perfect  with  your  coming.  .  .  .  There.  .  .  . 
You  hurried  home  to  me,  didn't  you*?  .  .  .  Yes, 
I  hoped.  I  felt  the  ship.  I  could  not  sleep.  I 
wondered  if  I  could  be  wrong.  .  .  .  Oh,  to  think 
of  the  dawn  coming  in — rinding  us  here  together 
.  .  .  and  the  little  Gleam.  .  .  ." 

Gray  light  was  coming  in.  Her  face  was  shad 
owed,  but  the  gray  was  faint  about  her  hair.  His 
heart  had  taken  something  perfect  from  her ;  some 
thing  of  the  nature  of  that  peace  which  had  come 
to  him  at  the  Jade's  rail  crossing  the  Line,  but 
greater  than  that,  the  fulfilment  of  that.  Because 
it  was  perfect,  it  could  not  last  in  its  fulness. 
That  was  the  coolness  of  the  Hills,  but  his  love 
was  glowing  now  like  noon  sunlight  in  a  valley, 
the  redolence  of  high  sunlight  in  the  river  low 
lands.  Mother  Earth  had  taken  them  again. 

It  was  the  tide  of  life;  it  was  as  she  had  told 
him  it  must  be  with  her,  akin  to  the  loveliest  pro 
cesses  of  nature,  like  the  gilding  of  a  tea-rose,  like 
the  flight  of  swans.  He  watched  her  as  the  dawn 
rose,  as  a  woman  is  only  to  be  seen  in  her  own 
room;  watched  her  without  words,  until  from  the 
concentration,  that  which  had  been  bound  floated 
free  within  him.  ...  A  sentence  she  had  spoken 

[338] 


THE      STONE      HOUSE!      II 


(it  may  have  been  an  hour,  or  a  moment  ago) 
returned  to  his  consciousness.  "Oh,  how  I  wanted 
you  to  come  home  to-night!" 

His  mind  was  full  of  pictures  and  power.  It 
may  have  been  the  strangeness  of  the  light,  but 
his  eyes  could  not  hold  her  face,  nor  his  mind  re 
member  the  face  that  had  welcomed  him  in  the 
lamplight.  Different  faces  moved  before  his  eyes, 
a  deep  likeness  in  the  plan  of  them,  as  pearls 
would  be  sorted  and  matched  for  one  string,  a 
wonderful  sisterhood  of  faces,  tenderness,  forti 
tude,  ardour,  joy,  renunciation.  It  was  like  a 
stroke.  He  had  loved  them  all — facets  of  one 
jewel.  And  was  the  jewel  her  soul*? 

He  arose,  without  turning  from  her,  and  moved 
to  the  far  corner  of  the  room,  where  there  was 
neither  chair  nor  table.  As  he  moved,  he  watched 
her  with  tireless  thirsting  eyes. 

She  arose  and  came  to  him,  moving  low.  .  .  . 
This  figure  that  came,  thrilled  him  again  with  the 
old  magic  of  the  river-banks.  He  could  not  pass 
the  wonder  of  her  crossing  the  room  to  follow  him. 
.  .  .  And  now  he  saw  her  lips  in  the  light — a 
girl's  shyness  about  her  lips.  She  was  a  girl  that 
instant — as  if  a  veil  had  dropped  behind  her.  It 
had  never  been  so  before — a  woman  always,  wise 
and  finished  with  years,  compared  to  whom  that 
other  was  a  child.  And  yet  she  was  little  older 
than  that  other — in  years.  He  loved  the  shyness 

[339] 


LOT     &     COMPANY 


of  her  lips.  It  was  like  one  familiar  bloom  in 
the  midst  of  exotic  wonders.  It  seemed  he  would 
fall — before  she  touched  him. 

She  was  low  in  his  arms,  as  if  her  knees  were 
bent,  as  if  she  would  make  herself  less  for  her 
lord.  .  .  .  And  something  in  that,  even  as  he  held 
her,  opened  the  long  low  roads  of  the  past — 
glimpses  from  that  surging  mystery  behind  us  all 
— as  if  they  had  sinned  and  expiated  and  aspired 
together. 

".  .  .  That  you  would  come  to  me "  he 

whispered, 

"I  have  wanted  to  come  to  you  so  long." 
"I  thought — I  could  not  tell  you — I  thought  I 
would  stand  helpless  without  words  before  you. 
Why,  everything  I  thought  was  wrong.     I  can 

tell  you — but  there  is  no  need " 

"There  is  little  need  of  words  between  us." 
.  .  .  That  which  she  wore  upon  her  feet  was 
heel-less,  and  all  the  cries  and  calls  and  warnings 
and  distances  of  the  world  were  gone  from  be 
tween  them,  as  they  stood  together.  .  .  .  And 
once  her  arms  left  him  and  were  upheld,  as  if  to 
receive  a  perfect  gift.  A  woman  could  command 
heaven  with  that  gesture. 

They  had  reached  the  end  of  the  forest,  and 
found  the  dawn.  The  sounds  of  the  world  came 
back  to  them  like  an  enchanter's  drone. 

[340] 


THE      STONE      HOUSE!      II 


"Come,"  she  said,  taking  his  hand,  "it  is  day. 
We  must  return  to  the  village.  And  oh,  to  our 
little  Gleam!  He  is  awakening.  He  will  speak 
your  name." 


THE    END 


[341] 


BY      WILL      LEVINGTON       COMFORT 

A  Brief  Expression  of  the  Critical  Reception  of 
DOWN   AMONG   MEN 


Outlook:  Possessed  of  a  marvelous  descrip 
tive  genius,  equipped  with  a  remarkably  flexible 
use  of  English  and  impelled  by  the  passion  of  a 
mystic — the  author  of  Down  Among  Men  has 
written  a  striking  novel. 

The  Dial:  Seems  to  us  the  most  exalted  and 
appealing  story  Mr.  Comfort  has  thus  far  written. 

The  Argonaut:  A  novel  of  extraordinary 
power.  It  is  good  as  Routledge  Rides  Alone.  It 
could  hardly  be  better. 

London  Post:  Alive  with  incident,  bounding 
with  physical  energy,  dramatic  in  coloring,  and 
modern  in  every  phrase.  He  has  a  message  de 
livered  with  vigor,  inspired  with  tense  passion. 

Atlantic  Monthly:  There  is  so  much  real  fire 
in  it — the  fire  of  youth  that  has  seen  and  suffered 
— so  much  vitality  and  passion  that  one  grows 
chary  of  petty  comments.  The  writer  offers  us 
the  cup  of  life,  and  there  is  blood  in  the  cup. 


CONCERNING     DOWN     AMONG     MEN 

Chicago  Record-Herald:  An  almost  perfect 
tale  of  courage  and  adventure. 

Chicago  Tribune:  Contains  some  of  the  most 
remarkable  scenes  that  have  appeared  in  recent 
American  fiction. 

New  York  Times:  Few  richer  novels  than 
this  of  Mr.  Comfort's  have  been  published  in 
many  a  long  day. 

New  York  Globe:  We  can  say  in  all  sincerity 
that  we  know  of  no  recent  bit  of  descriptive  writ 
ing  that  can  match  this  for  sustained,  breathless, 
dramatic  interest. 

Springfield  Republican:  Down  Among  Men 
is  perhaps  the  most  ambitious  American  novel  that 
has  come  out  during  the  past  year. 


^  Net  $1.25. 


BY      WILL      J.EVINGTON      COMFORT 


MIDSTREAM 


...  A  hint  from  the  first-year's  recognition  of 
a  book  that  was  made  to  remain  in  American  lit 
erature  : 

Boston  Transcript:  If  it  be  extravagance,  let 
it  be  so,  to  say  that  Comfort's  account  of  his  child 
hood  has  seldom  been  rivaled  in  literature.  It 
amounts  to  revelation.  Really  the  only  parallels 
that  will  suggest  themselves  in  our  letters  are  the 
great  ones  that  occur  in  Huckleberry  Finn.  .  .  . 
This  man  Comfort's  gamut  is  long  and  he  has 
raced  its  full  length.  One  wonders  whether  the 
interest,  the  skill,  the  general  worth  of  it,  the 
things  it  has  to  report  of  all  life,  as  well  as  the 
one  life,  do  not  entitle  Midstream  to  the  very 
long  life  that  is  enjoyed  only  by  the  very  best  of 
books. 

San  Francisco  Argonaut:  Read  the  book.  It 
is  autobiography  in  its  perfection.  It  shows  more 
of  the  realities  of  the  human  being,  more  of  god 
and  devil  in  conflict,  than  any  book  of  its  kind. 


CONCERNING      MIDSTREAM 

Springfield  Republican:  It  is  difficult  to  think 
of  any  other  young  American  who  has  so  cour 
ageously  reversed  the  process  of  writing  for  the 
"market"  and  so  flatly  insisted  upon  being  taken, 
if  at  all,  on  his  own  terms  of  life  and  art.  And 
now  comes  his  frank  and  amazing  revelation,  Mid 
stream,  in  which  he  captures  and  carries  the  read 
er  on  to  a  story  of  regeneration.  He  has  come 
far;  the  question  is,  how  much  farther  will  he  go? 

Mary  Fanton  Roberts  in  The  Craftsman: 
Beside  the  stature  of  this  book,  the  ordinary  novel 
and  biography  are  curiously  dwarfed.  You  read 
it  with  a  poignant  interest  and  close  it  with  won 
der,  reverence  and  gratitude.  There  is  something 
strangely  touching  about  words  so  candid,  and  a 
draught  of  philosophy  that  has  been  pressed  from 
such  wild  and  bitter-sweet  fruit.  The  message 
it  contains  is  one  to  sink  deep,  penetrating  and 
enriching  whatever  receptive  soul  it  touches.  This 
man's  words  are  incandescent.  Many  of  us  feel 
that  he  is  breathing  into  a  language,  grown  trite 
from  hackneyed  usage,  the  inspiration  of  a  quick 
ened  life. 

Ida  Gilbert  Myers  in  Washington  Star:  Cour 
age  backs  this  revelation.  The  gift  of  self-search 
ing  animates  it.  Honesty  sustains  it.  And  Mr. 


CONCERNING      MIDSTREAM 

Comfort's  rare  power  to  seize  and  deliver  his 
vision  inspires  it.  It  is  a  tremendous  thing — the 
greatest  thing  that  this  writer  has  yet  done. 

George  Soule  in  The  Little  Review:  Here  is 
a  man's  life  laid  absolutely  bare.  A  direct,  big 
thing,  so  simple  that  almost  no  one  has  done  it 
before — this  Mr.  Comfort  has  dared.  People  who 
are  made  uncomfortable  by  intimate  grasp  of 
anything,  to  whom  reserve  is  more  important  than 
truth — these  will  not  read  Midstream  through, 
but  others  will  emerge  from  the  book  with 
a  sense  of  the  absolute  nobility  of  Mr.  Comfort's 
frankness. 

Edwin  Markham  in  Hearst's  Magazine:  Will 
Levington  Comfort,  a  novelist  of  distinction,  has 
given  us  a  book  alive  with  human  interest,  with 
passionate  sincerity,  and  with  all  the  power  of  his 
despotism  over  words.  He  has  been  a  wandering 
foot — familiar  with  many  strands ;  he  has  known 
shame  and  sorrow  and  striving;  he  has  won  to 
serene  heights.  He  tells  it  all  without  vaunt,  re 
lating  his  experience  to  the  large  meanings  of 
life  for  all  men,  to  the  mystic  currents  behind 
life,  out  of  which  we  come,  to  whose  great  deep 
we  return. 

T2mo.,  Net,  $1.25 


BY     WILL      LEVINGTON     COMFORT 


RED   FLEECE 


Springfield  Republican:  The  first  genuine  war 
novel. 

Outlook:  The  first  novel  of  any  real  conse 
quence  dealing  with  the  great  war. 

San  Francisco  Argonaut:  An  extraordinary 
book.  The  reader  of  Comfort's  book  is  carried 
away  on  a  storm  of  emotion. 

New  York  Tribune:  Decidedly  the  first  not 
able  novel  of  the  great  war  is  Will  Levington 
Comfort's  Red  Fleece.  Comfort  sees  in  the 
moujik's  dreamy  soul  the  seed  of  a  spiritual  re 
generation  of  the  world. 

The  Dial:  As  a  stylist,  Mr.  Comfort  has  never 
done  better  work.  "His  clothing  smelled  of 
death ;  and  one  morning  before  the  smoke  fell,  he 
watched  the  sun  shining  upon  the  smoke-clad 
hills.  That  moment  the  thought  held  him 
that  the  pine-trees  were  immortal,  and  men  just 
the  dung  of  the  earth."  It  is  not  given  to  many 
men  to  write  such  English  as  that. 


BY     WILL      LEVINGTON     COMFORT 

Boston  Transcript:  This  is  a  story  written  in 
wireless.  It  leaves  a  lightning  impression. 

New  York  Times:  This  novel  has  one  most 
unusual  fault.  It  is  not  long  enough. 

Churchman,  New  York:  By  far  the  most  in 
teresting  and  thoughtful  book  of  fiction  springing 
from  the  great  war. 


I2mo.,  Net,  $1. 


A     000114388     2 


